


All that is gold does not glitter

by Kit_SummerIsle



Series: Prime Nights [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Anal, Golden Age, Light Bondage, M/M, Multi, Oral, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostitution, Slash, Threesome, Toys, dp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-08 12:48:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kit_SummerIsle/pseuds/Kit_SummerIsle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hot Rod is desperate. Totally desperate with no choices whatsoever left to him. Still, he can hardly believe what he'd agreed to and with whom...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Desperation

**Author's Note:**

> Note: written for a kinkmeme prompt:  
> http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/11776.html?thread=12119040#t12119040
> 
> Note2: Yes, Skywinder, kinkmeme once again kidnapped all my muses. :-) Before you ask. :-P
> 
> Note3: Chinese translation can be read here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/3573887

The dark green clouds were looming over the white towers of Iacon, their heavy bellies promising rain soon, an acidic downpour to scour the streets and reinvigorate the crystals growing in the parks. A wind rose up, rolling colder fumes around the buildings, smearing some of its dirt and soot on the whitewashed walls that it brought straight from the Kaon factories. The rain would wash it off soon, but for now, the usually spotless buildings were smeared with black and grey, their elaborate lines marred by the dirt. 

The street itself was strewn with windblown trash too, the heaps of scrap-metal among the oil-puddles and some broken glass an unusual spectacle even at this part of the mighty capital of Cybertron. The houses on its sides were stark and utilitarian, a far cry from the magnificence of the inner city, where the tourists from many towns and planets marveled at the Senate, the High Temple or such spectacles. Mechs who lived here were neither rich nor influential enough to wander into the inner parts, they lived and worked amongst the docks, the spaceport and the other industrial parts that Iacon too sported, but never advertised. Most of them barely scraped by lately, since the prices started to rise and energon as well as housing became more and more expensive.

It was a long, slow process, lengthy even by the standards of mechs living for thousands of vorns, and as such, barely perceivable. The mechs living in the poorer parts of the mighty capital mostly believed it to be temporal, waited and hoped for things to become better again, Cybertron’s Golden Age reasserting itself, like it always did before. They trusted their Lord Prime and his Lord High Protector to lead them to better times again, as they’ve never before failed to bring wealth and peace to their planet, they, who were almost gods like Primus himself to every Cybertronian… 

Except for one mech, huddling on a small stool in a dirty bar, holding the cube of cheap high-grade in his servo, knowing that it was the very last of his credits spent on it. The flames on the flashy paint were scratched and fading, and the vain mech absolutely abhorred to appear in such condition in public. But he had no choice. He no longer had credits for detailing, painting or just simply washing his frame. He no longer had a house in fact, since he was owing so much rent that his landlord had him forcibly thrown out earlier this light cycle…

…and he could call himself fortunate that the landlord was not one of the cruel ones, stripping him down for parts to cover the debt. Hot Rod had heard tales of such cases, illegal as they were, but happening nevertheless. Still, it didn’t change the fact that he was broke and no hope of getting any better. The last job he had, the one in the docks he was fired after only two orns, pretty much the same occurrence as the previous ones. Hot Rod knew that he should keep his vocalizer muted and his opinions to himself – but he couldn’t help himself. Criticizing everything and every mech might not be the attitude employers want, but it was what he did. Too bad. 

Hot Rod snorted angrily and sipped a small mouthful of the high-grade. He grimaced a bit at the unrefined, crude taste – a vorn ago he wouldn’t have touched such a substance, much less drink it, carefully as it behooved to his last drink. How did he loose everything in such a short time? Mechs started to avoid him when his problems became known and he tried to scrape by, get new jobs and new loans to cover the previous ones. But friends soon proved to be unsympathetic after he’d borrowed so much and repaid nothing while banks closed their doors at his credit history. He slid down all the time, selling his trinkets, his furniture even, which wasn’t even his per se… and when nothing remained and no mech came to his aid he found himself on the street with only two credits in his otherwise empty subspace…

And he spent those on this icky cube, like so many of the last ones, so what? It wasn’t like he could do anything productive with them. His next stop would have to be the nearest charity stall, where every former colleague driving to work could see him queuing for a small cube of mid-grade whenever he could, starving slowly instead of a quick end… and frankly, Hot Rod didn’t think his pride could stand those glances or the prospect. Better then to simply drive out of the town far enough until his fuel lasted and let an acid rain come. Yeah, that would be an ignominious end, but it wasn’t like he had a lot of chances. 

Drinking up the last of his high-grade, Hot Rod grimaced again at the taste and stood up, his desperation making the decision instead of common sense. He left without a backwards glance to the decrepit bar which he wouldn’t see again and the patrons didn’t care about his leaving either – destitute drunks are not friends, not when they compete for the same charity drips. Stepping outside he grimaced thinly at the towering clouds and the biting wind that already carried the smell of acid in the air – it was a fitting weather for his misery. The clouds further darkened the sky that was already leaning towards blackness of the dark cycle.

The group at the end of the alley was one that almost made him turn back. The bots standing at the corner were clean, well-maintained and wearing expensive paints and trinkets on their frame, all the latest fashion. He’d have to go by them, let them see how far he’s fallen and how dirty his once-shining paint was… and he even knew some of them by sight. Hot Rod tightened his servos into fists and fixed his optics on the main road traffic as he walked by the group. But he couldn’t help but flinch when the disdaining voices spoke up…

“Ugh, what a disgusting frame! I’d be deactivating myself if I looked that unkempt!”

“Hey, rust-bucket, keep to the slagheap where you belong! Don’t touch us or you’ll regret it!”

“Yeah, I can’t believe such mechs are allowed in the city!”

He walked slowly and tightly keeping himself in check out of the back alley, into the main road, transformed fast and melted into the traffic. He was trying to forget the words that hurt, that cut into his already nonexistent self-esteem. Driving was one of those things he enjoyed and excelled in – unfortunately never enough to become a racer, only trying himself on the roads of Iacon, speeding to outrace Enforcers and entering small, illegal contests that he always lost and which contributed heavily to the diminishing of his funds. But he wouldn’t race this time – he got caught enough times so that his next sentence would be a reformat to a stationary alt and that was a worse prospect than deactivation.

Hot Rod shook and wobbled on his tires even just at the thought before righting himself and blending into the flow of traffic. But at the next crossing he was forced to stop anyway; the Enforcers set up a barrier and told the commuters to transform to base form and pass the main road on pedes, to let a priestly procession pass unimpeded. The indicated detour led through a small park, its crystals glittering in the many bobbing headlights that passed them, the sight eerie in his tired and listless optics. 

He parted from the long line of mechs trudging through the park, on their way to home, work, parties or such… he didn’t belong among them, not any more. Aimlessly wandering among the bare crystals and wrought iron statues with hungry optics, the flame-coloured mech once again lamented his chances – or rather the lack of them. No matter how hard he thought there was just no more favours he could ask, no more friends who would help and no way out of this downward spiral he’d fallen into. Staggering to a low bench he slumped onto it, burying his helm into his servos, moaning low in helpless despair. 

But when a servo fell onto his shoulder guard, he acted as fast as long time ago, in a self-defense class he barely remembered any more. Catching the servo with his own, and pulling it, he threw the attacking mech over his shoulder… or rather he tried to, but the mech was standing as solidly as though he’d set roots into the gravelly ground and he’d only sprained his own wrist-joint in the effort. It was like trying to throw Cybertron itself, by the weight he felt and the strength in that servo.

In that _taloned_ servo, he noted with dismay, the details standing out in his overworked processor with a clarity he hardly felt lately, freezing his tanks and making him swallow uneasily. Talons were bad, even he knew it. Barely any but the military class had them and they didn’t frequent Iacon often. Hot Rod himself hasn’t seen a military mech so far, unless an occasional speck of a Seeker in the sky counted. But certainly not from up close.

All these thoughts flashed across his processor while he jumped to his pedes and whirled to face his attacker, retreating at the same time. Desperate as he was and contemplating his own end even – but his frame and coding still acted with survival instincts, trying to escape from what he perceived as dangerous. The attacker didn’t follow him and Hot Rod’s lipplates slowly fell open and his processor froze in shock, hardly letting him to hear the rumbling deep voice from the huge mech…

“Apologies.” – the strong, deep voice held no tones of apology though, the flame-coloured mech dazedly noted, it was cultured and superficially polite but bristling with intent and self-assurance underneath, strength and dominance that he could not hope to match ever – “It wasn’t my intention to startle you.”

Hot Rod wanted to ask what then his intentions were by approaching a lone mech from behind in a deserted park, but by then the details of the mech became undeniable to his deeply shocked processor. The silver-black frame with the deep red accents, the huge, heavily armoured flight-frame that towered over him, the red optics that seemed to spear him with their frightening intensity… and those taloned servos that grabbed him and looked perfectly capable of ending his pitiful existence in a matter of kliks…

Hot Rod was almost embarrassed by the squeak that came out of his vocalizer, had he been able to gather enough courage to feel such a thing. The mech in front of him was… _no, his processor whispered, it was flat out impossible... and oh Primus, he’d tried to throw him and what will he do to punish him, sweet Primus…_ he tried to answer and kneel and bow at the same time, not knowing what would make the Lord High Protector more lenient towards a dirty beggar, because yes, he admitted to himself that it was Lord Megatron himself standing there in front of him and Hot Rod couldn’t make an intelligible sound as he fell to his knee joints.

“No need for that little mech.” – the tone became a little impatient, but Hot Rod would take impatient any orn instead of angry – “I just wanted to ask you something. Stand up now, will you?” 

Hot Rod scrambled to obey, because when the Lord High Protector ordered you to do something you obeyed first and only wondered later and in the secret of your mind what and why he wanted you that. Not that he’s ever met the mech, but there were… stories circulating around, rumours and tales about him that made him quake in his armour. Firmly locking his shaking knee-joints he rose silently and peered upwards into those smoldering optics that frankly gave him the creeps. A tiny thread of relief curled in his meta that the co-ruler of the planet didn’t look angry and didn’t look like wanting to punish him for the infraction he’d committed. 

“S-sure, I mean y-yes of course, My L-lord! What-whatever you want to!” 

The red optics flashed again with something that, in other mechs Hot Rod might have dared to label as amusement. It didn’t reassure him much in the context though. 

What’s your designation little mech?” 

"H-hot Rod, My Lord!”- he didn’t dare to allow the indignation for the adjective _‘little’_ form in his processor, much less show it outwardly. He _was_ little compared to the huge warframe, much as he didn’t want to think about it a lot. 

“Mmmm… nice designation for a nice mech.” 

If it wasn’t completely and utterly impossible, Hot Rod might have thought that the large mech’s voice held a deep purring as he said that. As it was he shook that inappropriate thought off and tried to think of something to answer that hopefully wouldn’t get him slagged, incarcerated or killed… like his usual brand of bad jokes have done before so many times. It would be suicide with _this_ mech… 

“I… thank you, My Lord…” 

“You seem to have seen better times though.” 

The penetrating gaze slid down his frame and Hot Rod blushed deeply and flinched, acutely aware of every scratch, dent and rusted patch on his formerly bright, stylish armour he used to be so proud of. It was awful to know how much his appearance has fallen, but it was pure agony to be brought up by a mech so far above him… 

“I’ve… lost my job, My Lord, recently.” 

“I see…” – the red optics became just a little more calculating, causing Hot Rod to nearly try and flee, a hopeless endeavor what it would be anyway – “Maybe you’d be amenable to my proposition then. It comes with a nice sum after all." 

Hot Rod felt his knee-joints would just fold up despite the lock and his vocalizer seemed to be stuck. What could he mean…? What could the ruler of the planet want from him, a simple mech who was wanted by no mech else? 

"W-what would that b-be? My Lord?” 

"Why, can’t you guess?" 

The tone was deep, smooth and this time distinctly purring with a hot, dark emotion smoldering underneath. Suddenly Hot Rod remembered another branch of tales about the Lord Protector and his brother, their pastime that involved mechs picked up on the streets... His own, blue optics widening impossibly he stared back at the mech, putting two and two together. 

“I… uhh… an…interface…?” 

Lord Megatron laughed easily, deeply and the sound rolled through Hot Rod with waves of _exciting-arousing-frightening_ intensity. 

“Not quite just _one_ , if you know what I mean… but yes, that is what I… _we_ want.” – his tone turned serious and he continued – “You aren’t obliged to agree though. We much prefer willing participants and you wouldn’t be harmed even if you decline.” 

Hot Rod felt like in a dream. His fear spiked at the thought of interfacing with _Lord Megatron_ of all mechs, but he couldn’t deny the allure of him either. Huge, dark, dangerous, the Lord High Protector wasn’t the kind of mech he’d ever imagined as a partner, but there was his magnetic draw, that deep thunder of a voice that shook him to his core… and hadn’t he entertained the notion of interfacing for credits before? In fact… what could he loose? Nothing, since he had nothing? He knew that he’d have to decide fast, for the Lord High Protector didn’t look a particularly patient mech. 

Still, he almost didn’t believe the words that came out his vocalizer. 

“Y-yes… I’d… do it. Umm. I mean… yeah, why not? I mean I’d be glad to!” 

He was babbling, Hot Rod knew and should stop before he made himself look like a fool. Or was it already late for that? Anyhow, he was relieved to see that scarred lipplates draw to an easy smile, even with the pointed fangs flashing out in the meager lighting. 

“Come on then, little mech. You’ll be told the details soon and if you don’t want to… you can still decline then." 

Well. At least he’d see the Palace from the inside. Better than a deserted park in the coming acid rain, Hot Rod’s processor told him firmly. 


	2. Hesitation

He should have known that it wouldn’t be as easy as to go from the dirty streets into the Lords’ berthroom. When they reached the Palace, Hot Rod of course driving respectfully behind Lord Megatron and trying to keep up with the powerful engine and transformed by the small, almost hidden door at the end of a back alley, Hot Rod was blushing again embarrassed at the lewd, knowing looks the guards standing in attention cast at him. If the tales he heard were true, or even just a half of them, they must have seen plenty of such mechs coming in there, following Lord Megatron meekly and knew exactly for what reason. 

But once inside, the huge silver mech has drawn a tingling track on his helm by a vicious-looking talon, smiled again, rather predatorily… and silently pointed him into a small side-room, while he disappeared down the corridor and Hot Rod was suddenly much less sure of himself. Not to mention he didn’t know why he was… here. Wherever here was. An office was the last thing he’d expected to be led to. But the mech behind the desk wasn’t surprised either his presence or his person. He stood and actually bowed a little, making the young mech flustered and fumbling for an appropriate response before speaking up.

“I am in charge of making sure that you understand what you are agreeing to. My designation is Lawsuit. Please, be seated.”

Hot Rod sat dazedly still, thankful on behalf of his shaking knee-joints and accepted the datapad the other mech handed to him. Switching it on, he saw a complicated legal document easily a dozen pages long, written in the kind of language he could never make head or tails of and after a breem or so of futile reading glanced up to the mech helplessly.

“I… I can’t understand this. I’m sorry.”

“It is no problem. Allow me to explain it in normal words.”

Hot Rod nodded mutely, acutely aware that he was way outside his comfort zone and expertise here. The mech, while wasn’t in any way friendly, looked at least professional.

“The contract is between yourself and Lords Optimus Prime and Megatron. It covers an extended interface session between the three of you that may last as long as the Lords wish it and includes any kind of interfacing acts as they demand of you; for a proper compensation of course.”

The mech probably saw the flash of fear in Hot Rod’s optics, because he paused and smiled slightly before continuing.

“No lasting harm is to be done to you – or by you either – though some moderate pain is expected with the size difference and some bondage, toys and the resulting slight injuries are part of the agreement. Any injury will be completely fixed by the royal medics of course before you are allowed to leave.”

It was less than completely reassuring, but Hot Rod didn’t dare to voice objections. He nodded, tanks slightly fluttering but tried to convince himself that it would be worth a little pain.

“W-what about the… compensation?”

Lawsuit didn’t comment on his choice of a question, simply scrolled the datapad to the relevant chapter.

“Your down payment is ten thousand credits and whatever gifts and other amount the Lords decide to give to you before the contract is considered fulfilled. The latter part depends on your… performance.”

Hot Rod felt his jaw slowly drop at the amount. It was almost as much as he’d earned in his life altogether – and it could even be more? Slag, for this much credits he’d take any pain, would do anything they wanted to! He nodded like in a dream and listened to the rest of the explanations with half an audial only, the wealth of credits going round and round within his processor, making him dizzy and elated.

Yes, he’d be properly deferential and submissive to the Lords; yes, he’d consent to a medical check before – and after too, to make sure he didn’t kindle accidentally – and yes, he’d consent to a spark merge too, even one-way. That one he balked a bit, never before knowing that it could be one-way, but then, the Matrix might cause such a thing, he supposed. He blushed embarrassed sometimes as the lawyer calmly and unemotionally listed interfacing acts, some of which he’d only saw in porn-clips over the cybernet, some he couldn’t even identify or imagine from a mere label – but he nodded demurely to each, keeping the credits firmly in his focus. 

“Do you understand the conditions and requirements that I have listed?”

The lawyer was apparently at the end of the impressive list and though Hot Rod felt more than a bit overwhelmed, he nodded hesitantly, confirming it. He shifted only a little on the seat where he was sitting. It wasn’t uncomfortable or anything, just… yeah, the situation was.

“Yes, I do.”

“Do you agree to this contract and sign it accordingly then? It is the last time you can say no without consequences. At a later point you’d be held accountable for the time and effort that is going to be lavished on you.”

“W-what?”

The mech pointed on his frame, revealing with a slight scowl for the first time how dirty and uncouth he found him, indicating what he meant.

“You’re going to be cleaned, painted, medics will make sure you have no injuries and you’re compatible, the proper etiquette and responses will be taught… there is quite a lot on the list before you can serve the Lords. If you back out after signing the contract, there will be consequences.”

Hot Rod swallowed heavily. The shining credits started to fade a little in his meta, while his earlier fears rose again. Was he really going to do this? It was… if he put all the glamour and shining titles away, simply prostituting himself for credits. Lots of credits, sure and on the highest level possible… but whoring himself still. He shifted again, more this time and his spoiler trembled a little, his engine juddered slightly. He still had no other choice, no other avenue of income. He’d **have** to do this… or he was as good as deactivated soon. And so what if it wasn’t much of a choice?

“If it helps you to decide…” – the mech’s voice became a little less professional and a tiny bit sympathetic – “…no other mech before regretted signing the contract or left unsatisfied. In fact many in the court are in hopes of being chosen for this… role. Not that the Lords ever picked a courtier, but mechs still hope.”

Hot Rod stared incredulously back, but Lawsuit was apparently serious. Mechs… mechs actually… uhh… well, maybe he should take it as encouraging. If others _craved_ to be in the berth of the planet’s rulers… then it couldn’t be… bad? 

“I… understand. And I agree to… to sign this contract.”

“Excellent. Sign it here please…”

Hot Rod put his full glyph into the space pointed out and felt like slag suddenly. So he did sell himself, it was final now. He just hoped that it wasn’t the beginning of a… habit. Or a lifestyle. What would his creators think of him had they known about it? Useless thought there, since they were both deactivated long, couldn’t disapprove of his choices any more, like they had always done while he was living with them. 

“This way please…”

The mech stood while Hot Rod was still musing and waved him to the corridor and after some walking on the decorated corridors in dazed disbelief – _am I truly doing this?_ \- led him to another door. 

“The servants here will help you… to clean and whatever is necessary.”

The door opened and he was hushed into the room behind it, Hot Rod immediately blushing again at the several pairs of optics that slid over his frame. Professional ones at least, judging and deciding just what would be needed to make him presentable. He was led to the deepest pool he’s ever seen before, filled with scalding hot solvent and gently nudged until he was completely immersed in it. He twitched and jerked as several servos grabbed his limbs and started to clean the grime from the joints, at first with harsh brushes, then softer and softer cloths, until he felt like scoured raw of not only dirt but his plating even.

But it was only the beginning. After the thorough and deep cleaning his chipped and scratched paint was completely removed, the dents and small injuries fixed and the medic, a small mech called FixIt examined him thoroughly. It was somewhat embarrassing though to bare himself while several mechs watching, especially as the medic started to poke into his valve with instruments that Hot Rod didn’t even want to know the function of. It wasn’t painful though, just irritating and embarrassing.

He even had to bare his spark chamber to the mech who took very careful readings of it. This, he understood at least; the rulers would not allow him to carry a sparkling that would be from either of them, neither deliberately nor accidentally. In fact doing so would forfeit him both the sparkling and his payment and as the lawyer hinted, it would even endanger his life if Lord Megatron gathered the news in a bad mood. Hot Rod had absolutely no intention of crossing them so if he could help it. 

He took the poking and prodding to the best he could and even tried to listen to the protocol mech who was drilling him on how to approach and talk to the Lords and such nonsense. It was even harder to listen when he got a completely new coat of paint, all with his old colours and flames, like when he was younger and first acquired it – only with a more masterful detailing that he could ever afford. Hot Rod was vain enough to think that it was one of the reasons the Lord High Protector chose him, that even faded, scratched and chipped, he was good-looking enough so that the ruler of the planet noticed him.

-o-o-o-

While Hot Rod was prepared in one part of the Palace, in another part Megatron strode briskly and confidently into his brother’s spacious office, smirking slightly, the flight-surfaces trembling occasionally in anticipation. Optimus, he noted with some dissatisfaction was still deep in negotiations with the Na’ari via viewscreens, exactly where he was when he’d left the Palace earlier in the cycle. Megatron would bet that his idiot brother hasn’t even left for refueling. Crossing the room for the bar he poured some lighter high-grade into a pitcher and together with a crystalline cube set it beside Optimus, accidentally knocking the viewscreen aside a bit. 

“Excuse me, Mr. Abullea’lar.”

Optimus’s smooth, deep voice was tinged just slightly with displeasure, but the look he threw to his brother was far more stormy. In any old, bonded couple, it would signal the fact that somemech was going to sleep on the couch. Of course with them it was a tad bit different, since the berth was the place to decide that, but he still got the meaning. 

“Yes, Mr Abullea’something or other, excuse us please.’ – Megatron cut into the answer nonchalantly and ignoring the two sets of disapproving looks and the growing angry flickers in Optimus’s field, he continued. – “There is an urgent matter that requires me to talk with the Prime.”

“O-of course Lord Megatron, as soon as…”

But Megatron cut the connection before the Na’ari could say much else, still nonchalantly ignoring Optimus’s now loudly and angrily growling engine. He parked his bulk on the corner of the desk, casually brushing the datapads aside, smirking at the indignant expression he could almost see under the silver mask.

“Megatron.” – ohh, the scowl was divine, even though he couldn’t yet see it. But it teeked perfectly from the Prime’s strong field and oozed from his frozen nitrogen-cold tone – “Lately I believed that you’ve learned some manners after vorns of my patient teaching. Apparently I was wrong.”

Megatron shrugged and grinned unapologetically. He also opened his mouth to answer, but Optimus was faster this time and he had the advantage of their relative position. The silvery mech approved of the sudden push even as he was falling heavily to the ground by the desk, Optimus kicking his chair backwards and jumping after him to pin him down. Now, that he couldn’t allow… rolling out from under the Prime’s lounge he grabbed a flailing blue servo and twisted it… or rather tried to twist, as it punched him into the faceplates with a force that snapped his helm back and had him lift a brow plate in appreciation. Has Optimus practiced behind his back…? Of course he did. Ironhide. It was admirable even but he still had a few tricks up his gauntlet that Optimus couldn’t hope to match.

“Nice…”

“I’ll show you… _nice_!”

Well, well, well, Optimus was growling and wasn’t that a spark-warming sound to the Lord High Protector to hear his co-ruler giving free vent to his always bottled up anger? It meant his influence was finally showing on the Prime, giving him a firmer backstrut so few Primes dared to grow before. But he had to stop musing and start to pay attention, because Optimus was countering his attack with one of his own and Megatron had to scramble to avoid the kick that would dent his wing if connected…

The Lord High Protector cursed inwardly in a way that would send the protocol mechs into a spark-attack and tried to draw the slagging surfaces deeper under his dorsal plating. His flight-frame was new enough still, after a dozen or so vorns he’d had it that it was still not integrated fully into his fighting style – but it did give several openings to Optimus, which the glitch never hesitated to use. He showed his fangs as he grabbed and held the Prime’s neck in a strong hold, restraining his attempts to hit, kick or free himself.

“Now, now, that wasn’t very polite, brother!”

Optimus’s engine growled deep, harsh again, revving strongly against… slag! Megatron released his brother in a near complete shock. The glitch! His interface panel tingled at the contact, at the resonance transmitted into his spike from that powerful engine from oh-so-very close. Optimus was whirling at once, his slightly smaller frame pinning him to the ground, knee-joints nailing his legs, blunt-tipped digits grabbing those slagging wing-panels strong enough to dent the sturdy metal and Megatron stilled. 

By their usual dance, their unspoken agreement they had he was pinned and lost the fight… but the Lord High Protector hated to lose, even to his own brother, whom he taught to fight and trained ornly – and who was the only one capable of doing so if he was honest with himself. He relaxed his cables and snarled in mock anger… and when he felt the blue servo’s grip loosen ever so slightly he bucked up, flung a heavy pede into Optimus’s thigh and threw the red-blue frame over his helm, lunging over him in the reciprocation of the other’s move mere kliks before.

“Never… ever relent, Optimus. A fight is over when one yields. Not before.”

“Cheater.” – the tone was frustrated and Megatron clearly saw the pout on those lipplates still hidden behind the mask – “You just can’t take defeat, admit it.”

“Of course I can’t.” – he smiled openly and nuzzled that damned battle mask. Optimus took it to the extreme wearing it, not only for fights, but nearly all the time. – “Nor can you.”

The small silver plates of the mask parted under his ministrations and he was treated the spark-warming sight of Optimus’s full lips drawing to an easy smile.

“Can’t say that with you all over me.” -the Prime purred and the last of the tension bled out of his frame as he lay there on the plush office floor, among the scattered and by this time mostly shattered or broken datapads. – “But I daresay that it wasn’t the reason why you’ve barged in on the negotiations.”

Megatron cautiously relaxed his hold – the glitch wasn’t above using his own tricks on him after all – and rubbed his pelvic plates over the rapidly heating interface panel.

“I have a surprise for us, brother.”

“Ohh? What kind of a surprise?”

“Well… it is bright red and flame-orange, vain and pretty once it is cleaned up, have a nice little golden spoiler that almost screams to be grabbed and nibbled on and an aft that would look exquisite between us.”

Optimus’s blue optics darkened considerably throughout Megatron’s description.

“Ohh, so that kind of a surprise! Does it have a designation too?

“Hot Rod or somesuch. Little mech was all but desperate when I saw him in a park. Didn’t take long to convince him.”

“Like they ever dare to say no to you…”

Optimus laughed, an easy laugh, free of the guilt that characterized it for so long. He had always been worried about the willingness of their playthings, the mechs Megatron usually picked up for their nightly amusements and it was through a lot of convincing and legal assurances that he could enjoy freely the complete submission of those mechs. 

“That’s why it is not me making them sign the contract.” – Megatron pointed out, still nibbling on Optimus’s antennae. The truckformer retaliated by finding the previously targeted wings for an entirely different handhold and dipping his digits into the sensitive ailerons poking out from under the armour. Megatron moaned low and the sound directly on his sensitive antennae made Optimus nearly shriek and buckle up from the floor.

“Come on, then. He is nearly ready and about to be brought into the berthchamber.”

Megatron stood suddenly, drawing his brother up with him. Optimus was a little dazed already – attacking his antennae that way was low blow, the silver mech knew. But he rose readily enough, even if a bit shaky on those fragging long legs that turned on Megatron something fierce.

“No.” – blue optics flashed deep fire and Optimus shook his servo off – “I want to have him here.”

“Hmm…?”

Megatron glanced back bemused. Optimus moved back to his desk, decisively shoving off the remaining datapads from it, sitting primly in his chair and activating the viewscreen again. At his comm call his secretary hurried in and collected the pads, broken and whole without a comment or a glance at either of them, tidying up the desk until it showed the proper, Primely scene again.

“I have a call to complete that you broke off and you will pay for that trick, brother.”

Megatron’s lipplates drew to a slow smirk. If he understood well, Optimus was feeling… naughty.

“Shall I send him in, oh mighty Prime?” – he growled with a mock imitation of the servants’ deferential tones.

“You may, my Lord High Protector. Make yourself scarce for a few breems.” - blue optics twinkled with mischief, lust and dominance but his tone was confident in its steely intensity.

Megatron’s own flash of red promised all sorts of fun repayments for the casual dismissal, but he turned without a word and left the office. Let Optimus play with the little mech first. It wasn’t like he was jealous or greedy… and he’d join them soon enough.

-o-o-o-

Hot Rod felt like a new mech. He was whole, healthy, his tanks full for the first time in so long, his colours shone brilliantly in the Palace’s bright lightning, waxed and polished to perfection like… well, like a pleasurebot’s, which he actually was right now. He tried not to make himself depressed again with that thought as he followed a servant through the maze of corridors, each more elaborate and decorated as they went. It was obvious from the décor alone that they were nearing the inner parts, the actual chambers for the rulers of Cybertron and his tanks alternately fluttered with nerves and felt heavy like he consumed stones instead of the excellent quality energon.

Finally, the smaller mech leading him stopped by a huge door ornamented with a single, huge metal glyph of the Prime and waved him in, a digit across his lipplates signaling him to be silent too. Hot Rod took one last, steadying invent, tried to stop the shaking of his legs and even out the shuddering noise of his engine… and stepped in the slowly opening door, into the room behind with a bravery he barely felt.

That the chamber was huge and tastefully decorated in muted colours came as no surprise – the rest of the Palace was similar so far. His optics, deferentially held low, as he was told sought the stark martial colours of the Lord High Protector among the finery, but he couldn’t see the mech. It had to be the right place! But there was only one mech in the chamber, one who paid him absolutely no attention, who simply had to be Lord Optimus Prime by his looks, seated behind his desk, talking with a funny-looking organic on the viewscreen.

Hot Rod was starting to panic. What was he supposed to do now? Should he leave quietly, as the ruler of the planet was obviously working, doing his job and having no time for him in any capacity? He inched backwards, towards the door, hoping against hope that he hasn’t been noticed yet, that he could still disappear…

Until those blue optics, holding so much more authority, power and sheer steely personality he’d ever seen in any mech flashed to him and Hot Rod froze like a petrorabbit would under the stare of a cyberhound. The glance was casual, but still it nearly felled him by its intensity. It ordered him silently to come closer and Hot Rod dared not to disobey. He crept closer silently, helm ducked deferentially, but with his optics kept up on the further demand from the Lord Prime.

Optimus Prime continued to talk to the being on his screen, in a language Hot Rod had no knowledge of, his facial features hidden by his battle mask, his unmoving posture rigid, formal, betraying nothing in its royal stateliness. Only when the flame coloured mech was close enough to nearly touch his desk should he tried to, only then did the red-blue frame move, shifting slightly forward on the throne-like chair and his blue legs falling apart in a blatant offer. No, Hot Rod corrected himself, it was an order, not an offer. 

Cautiously circling the desk and the sight of the screen pickup he went down on his knee-joints, shuffling closer as quietly as he could. There was barely enough space between the desk and those blue legs in front of him and Hot Rod glanced up again to ascertain that he got the signals right and was doing the correct thing. He just caught a smoldering look downwards, the Prime’s blue optics deepening in shade and his knee-joints shifting even more outwards to admit him between them, into a hot, arousing… but dangerous place, into the frightening intensity of the Lord Prime’s field.

Hot Rod gently placed his servos onto strong, blue legs and started to stroke the seams. The Lord Prime was easily as big as his brother and it made to the smaller mech easier to find and fondle the seams between those strong metal armour-plates, to reach into the gaps with his slender digits and stroke the cables and wires underneath… it was familiar territory and Hot Rod, while not the most experienced of lovers did have his share of casual flings and one-night stands to know what to do.

It was a tad bit strange though to see the steel control the Lord Prime had over his frame that warmed considerably and his field betrayed his deepening arousal… but not a single plate moved or trembled that would signal it to his talking partner on the other end of the connection. Only when Hot Rod’s digits slid up and inwards, working towards the interface panel did one of his toes twitch, curling and relaxing again. 

He bent his helm forward, glossa following his digits in giving as much pleasure to the Lord Prime as he was capable of. The elaborately detailed, bright blue metal panel in front of him was as hot as a smelter when his glossa finally arrived there and he breathed an ex-vent on the trembling plate. Overhead, the Prime’s voice was as steady as when he came in, its deep, steady waves rolling through Hot Rod with the same _intensity-quality-power_ that his brother’s, the Lord High Protector’s exuded in the park. 

There wasn’t even a hitch in that bass tone when his panel snapped open and the single largest spike Hot Rod has ever seen rose from its chamber already half pressurized. His own invents did hitch at the sight and his optics widened in a sudden _ohhh-Primus-what-the-frag-did-I-get-myself-into_ thought, knowing that this spike - and another one unlikely to be any smaller - would be _in him_ all so soon. Knowing that theoretically all size mechs could take all sized spikes assured him very little in the face of the monstrous reality.

At least it was beautiful he tried to console himself as he gripped the base of it with his servo. That he could just barely encircle it completely, didn’t help his confidence, but Hot Rod was determined now to go on. The spike was truly a masterpiece, he had to admit. Its red-blue length was completely covered with elaborate scrollwork, the filigree lines of it embossed to varying heights that would probably feel like heaven on the valve sensors. Here and there, his thumb slid over imbedded crystals that throbbed with the same inner fire that the hot metal itself and the head… where all the elaborate lines run together to create the impression of a hollow, whirling vortex of golden lines that he couldn’t help but lean closer and touch it with the tip of his glossa, just to ascertain that it was real and solid, unlikely as it looked. 

That touch elicited the first visible reaction, as the huge frame above him trembled slightly and the bass tone deepened even more with a hidden, inner purr that he was privileged to feel shuddering through his glossa, his helm and into his frame. He distinctly felt that the Lord Prime has sped up his speech slightly, like somemech impatient to finish soon. But Hot Rod paid no attention to the talks he didn’t understand anyway, he was far too busy with his newfound rust-stick. 

Employing both servos now along with his glossa, he patiently – though he wasn’t a particularly patient mech, but now there were some pretty compelling incentives to be so – licked all the way up the impressive spike, following each and every scrolling line’s raised path till its end, coating it liberally with his oral lubricant. His own panel became quite hot during this work he felt, kneeling between the Prime’s long legs as he was, lubricant collecting in his valve already, preparing for more, later, the tip of his spoiler just touching the strong thighs. 

The blue knee-joints spread even more and the aft resting on the throne shifted, the pelvis twitched, pitched ever so slightly forward, like the Prime wanted nothing more than drive that eagerly straining spike into his mouth, down his intakes… but he was still talking, the other partner on his screen was still not finished so he couldn’t. And Hot Rod didn’t think he could get away with teasing the Lord Prime without giving him relief. 

So he lifted slightly, just so to have a little better angle, but still not go above the desk’s surface and be visible, and his mouth slid over that incredible-looking vortex, taking the Prime in. It barely fit, if he was honest with himself, relaxing his facial cables and opening his lipplates as far as they would go, but Hot Rod was determined to show that he could do it. Sliding slowly down on the scorching hot, slightly twitching metal his lips felt the raised lines that throbbed with power, the surging of intent and lust, the tart, sharp taste of the Prime on his glossa as the huge member stretched him… he withdrew ever so slightly as the head reached his intake, trying to prepare himself…

But the Prime would have none of it and Hot Rod felt a large servo settle on his helm, its frightening strength gently nudging his helm downwards, the thumb rubbing on his crest… but he felt the inexorable force to take the spike in fully and Hot Rod relaxed his intake and obeyed the gentle pressure… he might have felt impaled after a few kliks and his neck bulging outwards… but it did fit after all. It was anything but comfortable and certainly nothing arousing to him – but he dutifully massaged the length with his inner tensors, his glossa sliding on the underside and he tried not to bite… much, as the spike knocked the very back of his intake, a place nothing before have touched and he nearly whimpered it was so acutely strange.

He dimly heard the talking overhead cease and the Lord Prime’s other servo settled on his spoiler, the large digits starting to caress the trembling metal. The deep, strut-shaking purring intensified and permeated his frame thoroughly, the pleasant sensation balancing out the slight discomfort. Hot Rod hesitantly lifted his helm slightly, just to test whether the Prime wanted this or wanted to move himself and the strengthening purr decided the matter. That, and the strong servo that could crush his helm in a klik and wasn’t stopping him.

Emboldened and a bit more comfortable, bobbing his helm up and down Hot Rod worked the huge spike in his mouth to the best of his abilities for several kliks more before he felt the recognizable small twitches of approaching release. Trying to relax even more he prepared himself for the climax, moving faster and when he dared grazing his denta lightly on the scorching hot metal. When the servo on his helm tightened suddenly, and yanked it forward, he was ready. The hot splash of transfluid was no problem – the spike was so deep down his intake that not swallowing it was not even an option. What was acutely uncomfortable though was his faceplates slammed into the Lord Prime’s pelvis; his nasal ridge felt like being broken by the force. 

But there was no way he could move against the unyielding strength of the Prime that held his helm close until the hard jets of transfluid stopped and the frame above and around him shuddered deeply in release. Only then did the servo relayed and Hot Rod dared to drew off the spike, hurriedly licking it clean on his way down. When the gleaming head bobbed out of his mouth and he felt his facial cables finally relax the only thing he could think of was that it wasn’t so bad… 

“Looking good there, little mech…” – he dimly heard the growling deep voice from behind and his optics opened wide, surprised that he had closed them at some point. From above, its resonance rumbling through his frame he heard the Lord Prime’s bass laughter answer it, slightly breathless from his overload mere kliks before.

“He’d look even better between your legs, brother.”

It was just slightly embarrassing to hear them talk about him like he wasn’t even there, before Hot Rod realized that it _was_ his role and his real ‘importance’ compared to them and he squashed the little curl of shame before it took any root. Sitting back to his heels he shivered as the other powerful frame moved behind him and another set of powerful servos got hold of his spoiler, the talons ever so slightly curling into the comparatively flimsy metal. It didn’t hurt though, the sensors there interpreted the touch as highly arousing instead and Hot Rod flexed the spoiler backward, more into that touch…

The laughter was easy and honest this time, the heavy petting rewarding his eagerness and Megatron’s voice became just a touch more impatient.

“Now, if you had enough of your office-fantasy, brother… shall we move to somewhere more comfortable?”


	3. The Lair

Hot Rod was ushered forward and he acutely felt the larger mechs behind him, shivering in the focus of their intense stares that he could feel even from behind. And no, he wasn’t afraid, not now, not after feeling the easy strength of the brothers that could crush him in kliks… but wouldn’t. Despite of the huge frames, the strength, those incredibly powerful personalities he could easily teek… the Lords of Cybertron didn’t want to harm him. Maybe they would accidentally – he was so much smaller and weaker and in the throes of passion even the most controlled mech let that go, but even then it wouldn’t be anything fatal or serious. And he could handle a few dents or scratches. 

It was interesting though, that while the Lord High Protector was the military mech, the fearsome visage of the ruling dyad, while the Lord Prime was considered a civilian and much more gentle mech – but so far as Hot Rod saw them, it was Lord Megatron with the easygoing attitude, while Optimus Prime hasn’t even deigned to speak to him and his private façade was far more cold than his public appearances. Of course that could change, he grimaced – just inwardly of course. 

The room they arrived at last was something out of his dreams of the Well of Allsparks. Huge and round like the berth that occupied the center, the polished metal wall was in most directions replaced by slender pillars with scrollwork designs on them, among which he glimpsed the Iacon skyscape. Beyond the tall pillars there were balconies, probably offering even more breathtaking views within the protective forcefields that crackled slightly as the still strong wind blew some debris at them. The few existing sections of the wall sported paintings, carved crystals and a few statues and beside the door they arrived there were low tables heaped artfully with every kind of delicacy Hot Rod could name – and many he’s never seen nor tasted before. But that was about that as far as his optics could feast on the room, because in the next klik his spoiler was grabbed and an inexorable force whirled him around, into dark silver plating.

“Let’s see little mech if I chose you well…”

The tone was still almost friendly and the stark plating rumbled with the deep purr Hot Rod came to associate with the fearsome mech. Thinking that maybe the Lord High Protector demanded what his brother told him earlier, the flame-coloured mech made to sink to his knee-joints again – but Megatron didn’t let him. His helm was captured by the large, taloned servos and the angular helm descended on to his, the mouth flashing sharp fangs at him in a smirk – and Hot Rod leaned up and let his lipplates fall apart, obediently admitting the other into his mouth. He whimpered at the pinpricks of pain as the sharp fangs drew energon, but gamely reciprocated the aggressive, dominating kiss as much as he could. 

The Lord High Protector tasted unsurprisingly like metal, harsh and sharp, a strange taste he had no word for, but which organics might have described as peppery. It reminded him to flavours like bismuth and tellurium, tastes he knew from rare energon-cocktails he had tried in his youth, but different still. Though that might be because of the previous taste of the Lord Prime, tarter, like aluminium or lithium lingering on his palate… but by Primus the Lord High Protector could kiss, was his next coherent thought as his mouth was thoroughly ravished by the aggressive glossa and the sharp fangs, leaving no corner of it unexplored, untouched and unbitten.

He whimpered again, not with pain but with a sudden, gripping need and felt himself lifted and carried, thrown down onto a luxurious cover of the huge berth that nearly enveloped him in its decadent softness – before springing him back up from the firmer surface underneath. Hot Rod nearly panicked as he sank into the softness and he heard a deep laugh above him, just as he threw his arms out to catch himself… and hit a hard surface that could only be one of them.

“sssssorrrr…” - he tried to say but the dominating glossa muffled his voice still, not letting him go or do or even say anything. Inexorable weight pressed him deeper into the soft covers, his spoiler twitching uncomfortably underneath their combined weight – it wasn’t as sensitive as wings or even doorwings but in its own way it was just as much disliking being squashed as those. The black servos slid down from his helm onto his armour, the vicious talontips following the outline of the flames on his chest-plate with a tingling pressure that was just on this side of scratching the metal… and ended by drawing the center-line, where it would split in two to reveal his spark-chamber…

But they weren’t quite there and Hot Rod breathed a small sigh of relief into the mouth still plundering his as the black servo continued downward. His legs were pushed apart and the huge mech – even more enormous now from this viewpoint, Hot Rod nervously thought – knelt between them, his mouth still busy with the aggressive, biting plunder he did for a kiss. With some lurking apprehension, but pretty aroused by this time Hot Rod let his panel slide open, his valve plenty lubricated from all the activities so far. He just caught the satisfied growl before Lord Megatron, apparently an avid kisser, took his lips again for further tasting. 

Then there was that incredibly sharp and dangerous talon where he really didn’t want it at all and the young mech couldn’t help but squirm nervously, his arousal cooling a bit at the first touch of danger, the spiking fear easily discernible in his field. But the outer nub was encircled with the needle-sharp tip so gently as like it was a slender digit of a femme, firing a strong wave of arousal into his spinning spark, dispelling some of the fear there. There was still that danger, that even just the slightest pressure more and that talon would rend his protometal as easily as paper… but it only spiced the pleasure that erupted from its careful caresses. 

Hot Rod moaned louder this time, his slightly trembling servos splaying on the unfamiliar edges, sliding on the mountain of metal over him, trying to find the sensitive spots on him. There didn’t seem to be a lot and he remembered then – military frame. They were made to be not sensitive on the outside, their armour designed to stop blows and shots, not to be caressed by gentle servos. But that only meant that he should find the seams, through which the circuitry and sensors could be reached underneath by his smaller digits.

Then the taloned digit parted the folds and slipped inside his dripping wet valve and Hot Rod completely froze again. There was no way it wouldn’t tear it, it was just… and then, just then he felt the talon slid back into the digit with a snickt that he shouldn’t have heard but still echoed loudly in his processor… and he would have collapsed in relief had he not been laying down on his back already. The purring strengthened into a growling, slightly cruel laugh above him and the Lord High Protector left his mouth at last to lift his helm and Hot Rod saw it captured above him by another one, unfamiliar at first but quickly recognized as the Lord Prime, minus his silver mask. 

The digits pumped into him with a fastening tempo but Hot Rod’s attention was on the titans clashing over his helm, their kiss that almost looked like a battle – and which probably was one, that of dominance and aggression. Blue antennae bobbed and silver sensor-panels spread aggressively and two strong mouths tore into each other, apparently just as vicious in their own kiss as they were with him. He licked some energon from his own, ravaged lipplates and rolled his hips into those digits that were almost big enough to be a mech’s spike – that is a normal mech’s, not theirs. They were preparing him, he knew and was actually thankful for Lord Megatron’s consideration. 

But it didn’t take long before the digits left his valve, just before he could overload, so a small dissatisfied moan slipped free from his vocalizer before he could stop it. It was quickly muffled by the digits pushing into his mouth and he dutifully licked them clean of his own lubricant, the distraction doing little to take his processor off the blunt, hot tip of the spike that pressed to his entrance and slowly, inexorably stretched him open wide. It was, despite the preparations, an extremely tight fit, making the stretch into a dull ache, then into a slow burn before it cleared the rim platelets and popped inside. 

A hiss tore from his mouth and he had to fight with his own instincts to relax and spread his legs even more instead of tightening up, which, he was sure, would have caused him a serious injury in the situation. With some inner struggle, he managed to relax his inner cables and the immense hot spike pushed slowly in, deeper and deeper where no former partner of his could ever reach. The burn diminished somewhat as the valve sensors were fired up one by one on the ridged shaft of the spike, the pleasure that they conveyed to his meta slowly overcoming the pain. 

The helm that leaned over him upside down was the blue of the Lord Prime, the faceplates his silvery, lighter ones, his opening lipplates far less vicious-looking with the normal denta there – but his kiss was no less aggressive and dominating than his brother’s. There was still that barely perceivable coldness, like the Lord Prime didn’t want to give himself over to pleasure just yet, like he didn’t trust him for some reason. Hot Rod tried to be as unassuming and submissive as he could but the strengthening thrusts rocked his frame into the berth, making his valve feel like a furnace and made him loose it within kliks. With a high keen into the mouth of the Prime, he overloaded and his valve tried to clamp down the impaling spike – unsuccessfully, and it continued to ram into his oversensitive valve with a strength and intensity that was as frightening as painful. 

He couldn’t have lost more than a few kliks rebooting, because when he became aware of his situation again the spike was still thrusting into his valve and his mouth was still plundered by the Lord Prime… and Hot Rod whimpered a little at the sheer intensity of it all, but tried gamely to go with them. After all he was warned about this. A threesome was always intense, he had known that from before, always raising pleasure to another level, and with these two, with their strength and personalities… Hot Rod felt insignificant compared to them, a mere vessel to be filled and used, a toy, a plaything… and it wasn’t a nice feeling, even though he felt so intense bliss like never before.

Then the spike rammed into him with immense force and his thoughts were shattered yet again as Lord Megatron spilled his scorching hot transfluid into him, filling him up completely, the excess splashing all around them… and Hot Rod overloaded again, falling into it straight after his first, the charge was just so high that it needed another outlet fast. He trembled at the roar that seemed to shake the berth, the very room itself, that completely deleted his notions of the Lord High Protector being an easygoing, laughing mech. No, that sound was a pure predator, a warrior born and raised and determined and ruthless even in pleasure.

He was limp like a doll after the second mind-blowing overload when he felt his frame pulled up and the huge spike, not depressurized the very least slid out of his valve in a splash of fluids that dribbled down his thighs leaving a dull ache behind. Hot Rod struggled to regain his control over his frame, shaking off the stupor of the climax and sit upright as the large servos apparently wanted him to. It took him a klik before his optics could properly focus again and the room slowly came back in its splendour… and the large spike that stood proudly in front of him.

Taking the hint, he lifted a still weak servo – more or less to have a support himself - and leaned forward to lick it clean. If the Lord Prime’s spike was an artwork in itself, then the Lord High Protector’s was as simple, stark and intimidating as his military frame. Pitch black all over with clean, straight lines and raised, concentric ridges, it was impressive and frightening at the same time. But it didn’t push into his mouth when he was done – for which he was secretly grateful – instead the large frame moved away and Hot Rod was suddenly left sitting alone on the huge, plush berth, among the soft covers and puddles of sticky fluids, not knowing what the heck he should do. 

Truth to be told he wasn’t sure that standing up would be a particularly good idea – his legs still felt like jelly and his valve ached still. A quick look around told him that Lord Megatron was by the tables that held the delicacies and the Lord Prime half lay, half sat at the headboard of the berth, propped up by some pillows, arms crossed over his grill, and if he saw well – _no, that must be a mistake, it can’t be_ – a slight pout twisting his lipplates.

“Don’t be like that Optimus. You’ve already had him.”


	4. Too fast

So… he saw it well, after all. Hot Rod didn’t know what to do anyway, but he sure as Pit didn’t want to go closer to a pouting, probably angry Prime easily twice his size and several times his strength. But he had to… came the frightening thought, this was what they paid him for, what he agreed to. Cautiously, keeping his movements visible and slow, he started to crawl closer to the red-blue frame, keeping an optic out for his movements, the flashes of his optics that might signal what he’d want. 

Still he wasn’t ready for the speed the huge frame moved, barely having a time to a squeak as he was gathered up like he weighed nothing and thrown down on his front. A deep laugh sounded from behind that didn’t come from the still silent Prime, but his attention was drawn closer, where his servos were pulled up and attached to a pair of cuffs on the headboard making him kneel half upright, bent forward, swallowing nervously. So the more… kinky part has started. His legs were pulled apart and a spreader bar placed between them, stretching him wide with his panel still open and his valve dripping lubricant and transfluid. 

There was no preparation this time, just a denting grip on his hips and a single, hard thrust that impaled him fully in one stroke. It was way beyond an ache now and Hot Rod’s mouth opened to a shrill shout, his back bowing in the sudden pain that spread across his sensor-net. The soft cover rippled around his spread knees, its gentle touch an improbable counterpoint to the spike impaling him that drew back slowly and thrust forward again, eliciting another shout. It hurt, by Primus it hurt so much that Hot Rod whimpered between the yells when it knocked the ceiling node with a force that he feared would rip him apart, cleave him… 

“Now, now… brother, you are hurting him.”

The words intruded into his processor from the haze of pain. They came in front of him, close enough that he opened tightly shut optics to look up. His chin was lifted by a single digit and the Lord High Protector’s sharp, angular faceplates came into his slightly unfocused vision. His whimper was muffled by an energon treat put suddenly into his mouth and he bit down onto it, the liquid inside flooding his mouth with a tart, delicious flavour. At the same time the vicious thrusts slowed somewhat and the steel grip on his dented hips loosened a little, making the pain abate somewhat. Instead it moved to his spoiler, gripping it and pulling him back, onto the impaling spike…

He wouldn’t, couldn’t overload though, not even from the huge spike’s elaborate ridges glided over the sensors like he’d thought they would – but the pain bled all the accumulated charge off straight away. The best he could do was to hang on, his servos gripping the handcuffs as much for support as to take the pressure off his wrist-joints. The energon candy was a welcome distraction too, besides having a marvelous taste. It was high-grade filled, he realized at the next one Lord Megatron fed him with, the exquisite taste and the strength of it making more and more of the pain disappear.

He still keened around the treat when the last thrust and the hard jet of the transfluid erupted with fresh pain in his valve. Dropping his helm between his raised arms Hot Rod rued the moment he signed the contract, this time not even the eventual credits appearing so enticing as before. And the night cycle hardly even began, the sky on the outside was just beginning to darken with colours… he groaned again as the spike left, abrading the oversensitised nodes on its way out, the transfluid stinging the rim where, he was sure there were tears from the violent entry.

He trembled a little as the grip too left his frame, wondering what else were they going to do with him before it ended… as far as he saw neither of their spikes depressurized in the slightest, saying clearly that both the Lords were quite capable and up to several more rounds. Hot Rod groaned at the prospect. He was, despite of being younger and fully fuelled, wrung out already, tired and achy… but how come then that he had time to idle musings? 

The flame coloured mech turned his helm at the noises behind him and his blue optics widened, trying to focus better at what they saw. Behind his restrained, spread open and used frame there was a… well, there was no better word for it, a battle. The Lord Prime and the Lord High Protector were grappling on the berth like it was a battlefield – only it had far more erotic overtones, with their spikes still out and standing proudly, their blows pulled and the talons still retracted – it was a battle of domination and he saw the silver frame coming out on top, pinning down the trashing red-blue one and he heard the Lord Prime speak up the first time. Or rather… snarl up…

“Cheating again, Megatron?” – the tone was frightening and his denta, though sporting no sharp tips, still flashed threatening in the lights coming on with the settling darkness outside.

“I won earlier.” – the other rumbling voice countered half serious only, holding on to the earlier laugh but pinning down the Lord Prime with his strength and weight – “and I won now too.”

“Attacking just past the overload? Hardly called fair, brother.” – he bucked up, trying to throw the Lord High Protector off himself, but it wasn’t successful and his sentence ended up with a snarl.

“Who said I’d play fair?” – and the silver helm lowered, capturing his brother’s mouth in a kiss, effectively ending the conversation. 

Hot Rod stared mutely – moving of course was impossible in his posture, still bound and spread open – as the large black spike started to rub onto the defiantly closed panel of the Lord Prime. He was told that none of them were valve mechs, that he should not make a move to either of them that way – but that they might. The struggles of the Lord Prime intensified and his growls were audible even through the kiss they were still engaged in. 

“Open it now… be a good mech you so like to show them…” – the deep voice was crooning, seductively whispering – “I’ll make it feel good… I always do, right, Optimus?” 

“No!” – there was a little, barely there desperate quality in the Lord Prime’s angry denial and he continued to trash and fight, keeping his valve cover closed.

“Yessss…” – the Lord High Protector was, besides keeping his brother still pinned, trying to get the panel open, employing his spike, his free servo and his moth that continued to plunder the other’s. – “Come on, Optimus…”

“Slag! NO!”

Hot Rod tried to draw himself in and duck down as much as the bindings allowed to appear like he wasn’t even there. He had a bad feeling about the whole thing. The Lord Prime’s voice was seriously angry, one might even call it furious and his trashing if anything just intensified instead of calming down and giving in to his brother’s efforts. Hot Rod saw that the huge silver mech had difficulties to stay on top and had to cease his ministrations to the blue valve cover too. Even more worrying was the frown that drew his brow-plates together, the earlier laughing, playful mood all but gone. He turned away from them and twitched nervously every snarl, growl and crashing sound from behind.

The next time he turned his helm back cautiously as the sound toned down, he saw the two Lords kneeling face to face on the berth, both of them ex-venting heavily and their faceplates stormy. He had a feeling there was a comm conversation between them by the occasional scowls and flashes of optics they showed, but he couldn’t guess the conversation – that is, before one such glance darted towards himself. Hot Rod ex-vented heavily and tried to prepare himself for the next round, whatever that may bring. The only good thing was that while the duel took place, the batch of extra repair nanites the medic gave him in a shot was working and his valve felt almost normal again. Thank Primus for small favors.

And then they were both on him in a blink of an optic and he was nearly torn off the handcuffs and sandwiched between those huge frames, smothered in metal plates, gripping servos and hot ex-vents. The Lord Prime in front and Lord High Protector at his back, two huge spikes jutting between his still spread legs and nudging his entrance together, seemingly contesting the right to go first still… whatever possessed him to reach down and grip them both Hot Rod wasn’t sure, only the knowledge that the two spikes would rip him apart right now. Desperately he petted and massaged the hot metal shafts with both servos, keeping them together and away from his valve. 

That it actually worked he considered a small miracle. The angry growls and furious flashes from red and blue optics seemed to soften, their grips on his frame and spoiler became rubbing caresses and Hot Rod dared to hope. Keeping up with his handiwork he leaned forward, cursing a bit for the difference in their height, but starting to roam his glossa on what he could reach – the red chest plates and its fixtures; the glass, the center seam, behind which he was shocked to sense something incredible and powerful throbbing. He was rewarded by a deep purr and the Lord Prime leaned forward and down too, forcing him backward and he could reach the neck cables.

“Clever, little mech…” – the dark purr reached into his audials from behind and the answering grunt from the Lord Prime was warmer than any sound he made so far.

It was an awkward position for sure, but his back was supported by the Lord High Protector who seemed to be content with his spike tended to and himself nibbling on Hot Rod’s spoiler sending pinpricks of almost electric shocks into his sensornet. They leaned backwards more and more until laying again, the position more than a bit awkward, but the closeness, the heat their touching, rubbing frames generated, their lust-filled fields overlapping, every caress and scratch of the digits, every sensual stroke of glossae on heated plates… they writhed together on the berth like one conjoined entity, the sensation unlike anything Hot Rod ever experienced.

When they overloaded, all three of them together, it felt like the world shook around them, exploded and fell into pieces. Smothered between two much larger frames, Hot Rod’s HUD popped up dangerous warnings of overheating and the overcharge blowing more than a few relays. He couldn’t pay much attention to them though, his processor just felt like… it was smothered in bliss and wrung out completely. Never before had a simple touch to overload felt this intense, this overwhelming. He actually had to shut down a thread prompting him to fall into recharge – he simply knew that that was certainly not appropriate yet. 

But he could use some energon, Hot Rod was surprised to discover that he’s already used up half of his fuel. Not entirely unexpected, but surprising none the less. Once he could move maybe, freed from the two huge frames around him maybe then he could do something about that. Should he offer to bring them treats or energon and take some himself… or should he suggest some naughty play involving energon and gels? 

“See? I told you he is good.” – came the rumble from underneath him and this time a satisfied groan answered him from above.

“I concede your point, brother.”

For the first time the Lord Prime deigned to speak to him directly, and he didn’t sound angry or cold now.

“You’ve done well so far … Hot Rod?”

“Yes, Lord Prime… thank you.”

His voice was just a tad bit muffled from having several tons of metal spread all over him in the form of the Lord Prime, obviously enjoying his post-overload rest on the top.


	5. Too much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though I've written a lot of sticky scenarios in my other fics, I've never before mentioned aft/anal/ ports, because I found the idea illogical. But here, the prompt mentioned the concept, so I decided to include it. The warning is in the header for it already, but I thought to mention it again.

It wasn’t Hot Rod, who started to squirm and break the heap of them apart – not because he didn’t want to, more like because he couldn’t. No, it was Lord Megatron very simply throwing them both off, for his great strength it was not even a test of moving their weight. But Hot Rod was glad that he did none the less, if only to draw some cooler air into his vents. Now, if only either of them would take the spreader bar off, because it was damned inconvenient…

“W-what refreshments shall I bring you, My Lords?”

“Thirsty already?” 

“He’s a smaller model, Optimus, they don’t have as large tanks as we do. And not all of us are powered by an ancient artifact either!”

“Hnhh… it draws more than it gives and you know that…”

Hot Rod was shocked to see the grimace on the Lord Prime’s faceplates. Was he speaking about the Matrix…?

“Still. I remember when you carried on with a completely empty tank and dragged me with you as well. Cygnus Five, rings a bell?”

“Well, sometimes it helps that way too…”

“Anyway, little mech, drag that rubidium pitcher here and a plate too if you happen to have a free servo.”

The talons expertly removed the bar from his legs and Hot Rod stood, a bit wobbly at first, but with every step strengthening when he realized that the ache faded into the background and he felt… well, tired but sated too, even ready for more. The pitcher was full of a shimmering high-grade that he couldn’t put a label on but just the scent of it was making his processor light and his fuel pump growl. He snatched a plate with a good-looking assortment of candies and treats and returned both to the berth, offering it politely to the recumbent Lords before taking any.

He was immediately dragged down to the berth and pawed by the Lord High Protector but fortunately they allowed him to sample the treats and the high grade too for a few more breems. That they tasted amazing and incredible he wasn’t even surprised and the high-grade made him dizzy and light-helmed just after a single cube. Hot Rod could have feasted on the various gelled, solid, filled and spun delicacies all orn… but he mewled into the threat was nibbling and nearly choked on it too, when the large servo sneaked between his legs again and a sharp talon flicked the outer nub, sending a strong jolt of pain/pleasure zing through his frame. It made him jerk and clang into the other hot frame…

“You splattered me, little mech.” – the mock threatening tone made him turn towards the Lord Prime, who was holding a cube but his grill was splattered with the iridescent high-grade. Hot Rod nearly quaked in his armor, before realizing that the tone was not threatening, quite the opposite; and then he ducked his helm apologetically and swept his glossa along the pinkish droplets clinging to the bright metal. Satisfied purring told him that he reacted well and the flame coloured mech continued to lick the fluid up as slowly and sensuously as he could.

His glossa only stopped for a klik when his aft was grabbed and his legs spread again… and something cold but slick nudged his aft port. This was completely new for him, the port walls not having any sensors, it was only supposed to be pleasurable on the other side, the penetrating one… and he never tried it before. He mewled slightly as the object slowly stretched the port entrance and with a shluckt sound it popped inside. Hot Rod slightly drew his knee-joints under him to give a better angle and continued to lick the silently purring Lord Prime’s frame. The next ball was slightly bigger but it still went in without pain, just like the one after. From then on the connected balls grew to a size it made them difficult to take in and it was a real effort to relax… and continue his ministrations too. 

“Ohhh… slag…” – he panted as the sixth ball cleared the stretched rim and joined the others inside. The procession of the balls stopped and his stuffed port tried to acclimatize the spheres inside, since he was sure that it wasn’t the end of them.

“Take it like a good mech…” – the deep purr came from behind and the next ball nudged the rim, ever so slowly stretching it open 

“N-never did b-before…” – he groaned as his aft was stretched wider than ever to admit the next ball. At every one he hoped that it would be the last. 

“A virgin aft…” - Talons ghosted the trembling rim, caressing the metal around the half in, half out sphere before pushing it in with a decisive move. Hot Rod yelled and the so far satisfied purr under him stopped… and then his helm was lifted and a blue servo caressed it so gently that for a breem Hot Rod couldn’t make sense of it. 

“Not for long…” – a throaty laugh answered the Lord High Protector over Hot Rod’s helm.

The Lord Prime smirked at him and captured his lipplates in a heated kiss. It was only marginally less dominating and aggressive than his brother’s but at least it took his painful attention off a bit from where the balls stretched his aft port. Then the procession of the balls turned and a slow but relentless force pulled them out again, every ball clearing the rim platelets in a painfully intense stretch again. Hot Rod whimpered when they went in again, faster this time. The metallic rim did stretch, but it was still uncomfortable, far from being in any way pleasurable. But he was pulled upwards again, Lord Megatron removing the toy the last time and lifted him up, positioning his aft over his hard spike.

“Ready, little mech?”

No, he wasn’t ready. Not for this. Hot Rod now understood why this way of interfacing was never popular. It only gave pleasure to the one penetrating and was uncomfortable to the other partner, even with careful preparation. But he couldn’t, didn’t dare to say so. A nod was the most he could manage, but Lord Megatron didn’t wait for long even then. Hot Rod was let to sink down slowly, impaled on that hard shaft by his own weight, his aft stretching even wider and wider, until he felt like being cleaved in to.

“F-frag…” – he panted, hardly even noticing how his servos gripped the grey metal, almost strong enough to dent it for support. His back bowed backwards and his helm fell back, a silent scream leaving him when the slow, inexorable penetration ended and his aft plates clanged on the Lord High Protector’s pelvis. He was trembling even as the blue servo sneaked between his legs too and fondled the sensory nub there, sending jolts of pleasure into his frame. It almost… almost balanced out the painful discomfort.

“Yes, I’ll frag that tight little port of yours…”

The deep voice purred into his audial, the ex-vents puffing hot air onto his back and spoiler. Hot Rod trembled, grasping still the silver thighs but he tried gamely to relax. His efforts were shattered nearly when blue digits nudged his chest plates to open, caressing the sensitive seam up and down in a hypnotic motion. He had no choice really… the flame-coloured plate parted slowly, sluggishly and his trembling intensified. Baring one’s spark was serious – and dangerous business. The Lord Prime’s servo reached in through the half-opened plates and those strong digits slid over the central seam of his chamber. Hot Rod moaned, he couldn’t help it.

“Ohhh…. Primus…!”

It was just so amazing, that simple touch on the edge of the crystal and it sent fire all through his frame, frying relays and popping fuses, spreading a haze of pleasure over his processor. Even the spike stretching his aft wide sank into the background as the Lord Prime’s servo continued to pet his spark chamber, circling its edges and caressing the connectors. But then he felt himself lifted, off the spike and the Lord High Protector thrust up, ramming back in and Hot Rod yelled, his voice sweeping up in register into where it didn’t normally go… it was such an _amazing-awful-extraordinary-unbelievable_ feeling, this incredible mix of pain and pleasure that scoured him raw and left him breathless, wrung and burned up in the sheer intensity of it. 

The ever so harder thrusts up his aft, the oh-so-amazing digits on his spark chamber, those strong servos holding him, restraining and caressing… he was loud now continuously, the yells, moans and shouts pouring in a babbling stream from his vocalizer and he couldn’t have moved a single servo even if he had wanted to. He has already overloaded twice at least that he could remember and the charge just grew instead of being cleared by those. And it wasn’t over yet. The digits on his spark chamber dipped inside, skimming the very surface of his spark, playing with those incredible energies that made up their cores, their very beings…

It was too much, he dimly thought through the haze of immense pleasure and slight pain, it was too intense, too much… but his thoughts were shattered by the thrusts, the flares of so much bliss it was nearly agonizing… pain and pleasure mixed until he wasn’t sure which one came from where, which one was caused by what, who or why… and when the blue servo of the Lord Prime reached fully in and held – HELD! – his spark inside the cage of his strong digits and the Lord High Protector rammed into him with a pain that was almost bliss and filled him up with schorching hot transfluid… then Hot Rod screamed until his vocalizer reset and the sound was cut, its high notes trembling around them in the air and he fell into an abyss that was welcome in it cool darkness after so much burning pleasure.


	6. Break

It took far longer to online than it should have done. As he struggled upwards to rise from the depths of recharge and tried to convince his processor to actually work at least on a minimum level, Hot Rod was wondering what he was doing last dark cycle to be this exhausted and wrung out. Overcharge was almost a sure bet but there had to be even more to it, because his limbs felt like jelly and trembled like a frightened femme, while his joints moved with all the grace of a bulldozer and gave out a sound worthy of a dying Quintesson in the midst of a torture session. Was there a fighting, a brawl of some kind too? Could be, he thought dazedly as he tried to sit, his optics still seemingly stuck shut. His vocalizer – _and wasn’t that just curious?_ – felt like scoured with bleach and a steel sponge.

But he couldn’t sit, in fact he could barely move to any direction that didn’t hurt. As his processor sluggishly sped up to a whooping five per cent, the various hurts and aches started to become separate signals to point out the parts of his frame that had to be somehow injured. No… not injured. His HUD choose this klik to boot up and the frame report scrolled through it with majestic slowness, one line at a time, to inform him of… no that can’t be right. All systems within accepted parameters? Hot Rod was sure that the melted slag that he overally felt like was anything but within accepted parameters.

“Wha…?” – he croaked but his vocalizer objected to the forced sound with a squeal and a reboot, silencing him effectively.

His chest was on fire, his fuses all blown, his vocalizer died on him, his aft burned like someone pushed a white-hot rod into it… urghh… that made him remember. Oh yes, someone did exactly that. Someone big and strong and silver… Hot Rod suddenly knew where he was, with whom and what they did to his frame. Slag. Slag, slag, slag… he rued the moment he said yes and very much wanted the night to end, preferably right at this nanoklik… but why could he not move?

With a herculean effort the flame-coloured mech powered up his optics and unshuttered them. What he saw was a wall of silver-grey metal that, after careful focusing and a little unsuccessful squirming resolved to be the chest plates of Lord Megatron, far too close for comfort and far too much around him for his peace of processor… but he was no match for even his slumbering strength and the huge arms remained around him, hugging him close… if it were any other mech, Hot Rod would have called it _cuddling_ , but of course the Lord High Protector emphatically _did not cuddle_ , so he tried to banish the word from his processor.

He couldn’t move backwards either, and the reason for that was probably red and blue and huge and just as much cuddly… umm, no, just as much holding him close, and _yeah that was a nice, neutral expression_ , so he was stuck between the two largest, most powerful, fearful and dangerous mechs on the planet who were slightly snoring into his audials, holding onto his aft like it wanted to run away – which it would have, had he saw any chance for it to succeed – and ex-venting onto his spoiler that made him want to squirm again, because it _tickled_ …

Hot Rod tried to contemplate his options as he lay stuck between the two large frames, something he wasn’t good at the best of times, much less in his present condition. His aches slowly dissipated, his slight injuries started to resolve themselves and even his pounding headache eased off a little. Oh he was still exhausted and wrung out completely and he could use a long rest and recharge… but once he came online he couldn’t forget just who were _not-cuddling_ his frame and what they might try to do with him still. 

“You think too loud little mech.” – the bass grumble was nearly subsonic on his audials and definitely not a whisper. It shook him up too much. – “You deserve a little rest, but if you don’t want to…?”

Hot Rod nearly panicked at the implications of the grumbling-smirking question and tried to calm himself and go back to recharge before the Lord High Protector decided on further… activities. 

“I… just… too hot…” – he whispered back and was rewarded by the huge arms loosening a tiny bit and his vents could draw some cooler air at last. After a few invents he caught a smoldering red optic measuring him up from under half-open shutters, a servo absentmindedly stroking his hip seams… and in a near panic he ruthlessly forced himself back to recharge.

The next time he onlined, the process went far more smoothly, his frame felt more or less whole and pain-free and his overall mood was better too. The fact that he could even stretch his arms was a good sign too – that too close, too stifling, too unnerving embrace was gone, in fact both the Lords were gone and Hot Rod silently breathed thanks to any deity who cared to listen. 

The flame-coloured mechs cautiously lifted his helm over the rumpled heap of mesh covers to have a look around. The view outside was still dark, only the soft, hidden lighting provided a dim view of the room. The berth, to his greatest surprise was empty, save for himself and the candy platter pushed to one side, its contents half spilled in a macabre display of energon and oil fillings and various crystalline shavings smeared on the berth and the covers. Some of it was sticking to his armour too and together with generous amounts of transfluid and lubricant that made him blush, it made a true mess of his paint-job. 

As he contemplated his appearance – and stole a few more treats that looked still edible – Hot Rod became aware of the low noises coming from one side, beyond the berth. Lifting himself even more he saw a bluish light source coming from the ground that resolved itself to a bath tub… or rather a pool by the size of it, sunk into the flooring and illuminated from the inside. The Lords were there, this time Lord Optimus on the top, holding onto the edge of the solvent-pool and kissing his brother rather vivaciously. In turn his frame was held and caressed by the black servos – and Hot Rod noted that between each other, the Lord High Protector did not feel it necessary to retract those dangerously sharp talons and that their effect was seen in a few places, where some purple swirls of energon oozed into the bluishly transparent solvent. 

A bath would be a great idea, he thought, and after a few kliks he nervously amended the thought: if it didn’t contain two amorous and enthusiastic mecha that it did. Hot Rod has about had enough of the activities, though it didn’t look like the other two were of the same opinion. And sadly for him it was their will that dictated the night cycle’s events. He made an aborted move to lie back and catch – or pretend – some more recharge when the Lord Prime lifted his helm and those smoldering-blue optics looked straight at him. If it wasn’t an order then nothing was, Hot Rod thought a bit nervously and slowly sat up, discarding the idea of deception. 

The pool was a masterpiece really. Shallow on the edges with steps leading into it, deeper in the middle and one side, with fixtures that could probably produce streams of massaging solvent or raining it down softly on them – it really had everything Hot Rod could think of, and probably some more. He slowly walked in, the warm solvent lapping at his legs, caressing the worn metal gently and it felt so good that he almost forgot his apprehension. 

The warm, scented liquid worked wonders on his sullied plating, dissolving the sticky, icky stains and soothing his tensed-up, tired frame. Hot Rod slowly sank into it fully, wanting nothing than to lie back where he was and enjoy the Pit out of the experience that he rarely ever had before… but instead he cautiously got closer to the still kissing Lords. Once he got close enough, a servo reached out and unceremoniously pulled him flush to their plating. Those servos then included him in the caressing-petting, slightly stinging game they were playing so far and Hot Rod got into it as well, adding his digits to the… fun? Yes, it was fun, better than many things that happened this dark cycle so far.

The warm solvent made their plating slick and its constant, gentle caress loosened tightly clamped armour plates, making it easier for digits and talons to dip underneath and reach rarely touched, sensitive wires and cogs. Hot Rod was soon panting and any previous ache forgotten in his rising charge. Soon he discovered that busy servos maneuvered him – _yet again!_ – to be between the larger frames, floating almost as they held him. Then Lord Megatron pulled himself up, to perch on the top step and he was pulled down by Lord Optimus, until his helm was between the large thighs, facing that stark, black spike standing proudly in front of him…

Hot Rod moaned as his valve was fingered and a stray thought flashed across his meta – _here we go again…_ \- but he obediently licked the spike from the base till the top and heard the satisfied growl from its owner. One of his servos came up to grip the black shaft, the other steadying him on the silver thigh, as his legs were grabbed and pulled up and apart, the Lord Prime leaning over him, his spike shaft slowly rubbing on solvent-slicked sensory nubs while his digits dipped inside, stretching and flicking sensors inside The hot metal’s rough caress and the slick solvent’s soothing kiss soon made it difficult for Hot Rod to focus on his work on the black spike – it was just so intense already. 

Still, he did his best to work the large, black spike with servo and glossa until he could take it in and suck the head lightly, glossa curling under it, into the slight groove there, following it as far as he could reach. Then he bobbed his helm down a bit, taking even more of the shaft, and his glossa dutifully slid over and caressed every ridge and groove the same way. The hot, slightly solvent-tasting spike slowly slid deeper and deeper into his mouth until it nudged his intake and Hot Rod relaxed his tensors to let it in. There was always a nanoklik of discomfort when the thick shaft touched the back of his oral cavity and he bowed his helm backwards to ease the way deeper and it passed quickly. 

In the meanwhile the large digits played with his valve sensors until he was moaning around the spike and producing so much lubricant that the slick fluid flowed and mixed with the solvent of the pool. The leaving digits flicked the outer node once more, sending a strong jag of pure pleasure into his frame and making his mouth tighten around the spike, the denta grazing it slightly. He got a bit scared about that, but a strong purr and a grab on his helm told him that it wasn’t unwelcome and he realized that the Lord High Protector did like the somewhat rough play. He must have a rather high pain-tolerance, Hot Rod mused for a klik – but his thoughts were scattered when that elaborate spike slowly thrust into his slick and ready valve.

This time, there was no discomfort, he was ready and stretched enough, the huge spike filling him up wonderfully, exciting all sensors in the walls, straining all calipers, but in a good way… and when it knocked on the ceiling node, Hot Rod all but shouted around the spike in his mouth, shivered even in the warm bath as pleasure spread across his frame in strong waves. He ground back onto that wonderful spike while sucked enthusiastically the one shoved down his intake and trembled in the sensations that were, for the first time since he came here, all good, all marvelous and completely blissful.

He moaned at every thrust, transmitting the pleasure into the black spike, that he was pushed onto and what also thrust ever deeper into his throat. Impaled so pleasurably at both ends, able to do little else than hang on and enjoy it, Hot Rod stopped thinking and submitted fully to his base instincts and the bliss he was in. Rippling his valve calipers, now that he actually could do it, massaging the spike with his throat tensors, he accepted and welcomed the Lords inside him as fully as his frame was capable of. 

It didn’t take the long to reach completion, even though they all tried to slow the tempo somewhat, the interface was just so great, and he heard them making noise as well, the deep, dark, satisfied purr and the similarly deep moans and grunts told him that the Lords were extremely satisfied with the pleasure he gave to them. Still it was inevitable that in time the tempo picked up, the thrusts lengthened and the force pushing him onto the other spike grew, together with the charge inside him, centering between his legs but threatening to explode as soon as it found an outlet… the solvent splashed around them in waves, its caress largely forgotten in the driving pleasure and its former, pleasant warmth now feeling colder but pleasantly cooling their overheated, joined, writhing frames.

The Lord Prime came first, ramming into his valve with incredible force that would even hurt if it wasn’t so good and he ejected thick streams of scorching hot transfluid inside that oozed and splashed out to mix its silvery streams with the pool’s bluish liquid. It made Hot Rod overload too, screaming soundlessly around the black spike and his whole frame seizing up in indescribable pleasure that nearly hurt. He nearly haven’t heard the third roar that signaled Lord Megatron’s climax – but he certainly felt the transfluid streaming down his intake and the servos tightening on his helm, the strong field almost exploding around him.

Hot Rod whimpered a little, because he was so wrung out, so blissed out and oversensitized that even the slow pull-out of the spikes nearly hurt. He fell limply into the solvent, servo sliding off the silver thigh and dimly fought to keep his helm over the liquid. A strong, but slightly also trembling servo caught his shoulder and pulled him out effortlessly, settling his limp, barely able to move frame onto the steps of the pool. Then the Lord Prime plopped down beside them, splaying those long limbs every which way, obviously utterly blessed out as well, a sated grin playing on his handsome faceplates, matching that of Lord Megatron’s.

“That was… extremely satisfying.”

His voice was slightly breathless and sated, the grin oozing into it as well. Lord Megatron answered him much the same way, only a deep groan showing his own tiredness.

“That it was. Come on, little mech, you can speak too. Say that you’ve been enjoying it, right?”

Hot Rod needed a few kliks before he felt strong enough to speak up, and when he did his voice was still fairly trembling.

“I… did, My Lord… definitely did. It was amazing.”

“Look, Optimus, he actually means it!” – the Lord High Protector was almost… was it surprised, Hot Rod wondered.

“I do, My Lord.”- He gasped as his spoiler was playfully tugged – “ I really mean it.”

“You didn’t look so eager earlier though.” – the Lord Prime told him in a lazy voice.

“That was… uhh… too intense…”

Their laughs drowned together and Hot Rod blushed.

“Polite, too…”

He laughed too, hesitantly at first but more sure of himself as they, too continued to show good – lazy, sated, amused but above all _good_ mood. This, he could really enjoy, Hot Rod admitted to himself. Once he got used to the intensity the Lords displayed in everything, once he got physically _broken in_ , then the pleasure was literally indescribable. 

He might even want some more.


	7. Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (accidentally it got posted to the other fic. sorry)

It took a few more joors before any of them left the pool – and when they did, Hot Rod acutely blushed looking back and seeing the murky liquid they produced out of the crystal-clear solvent. But the rainshower took care of what cling to their frames and the dryers got rid of the last drops before he followed the Lords onto one of the balconies where low sofas surrounded a small table and the Iacon skyscape sparkled in the distance with the nightlights. They had to be pretty high, Hot Rod realized, to have such a view. And what a view!

The young and often hothelmed mech wasn’t much for architecture but the sight of Iacon’s most famous landmarks spread out in front of him like glittering jewels on a plush, black backdrop, with the approaching dawn painting just the slightest colours into the dark sky, while a full moon watched on… it was enough to stare with jaw slightly dropped. It was like a fairytale, something out of the datapads his creators used to read him before recharge, and almost as unbelievable a vision as those. 

“Do you like the view?”

The large frame stood behind him, his presence awakening only the faintest apprehension by this time in the flame-coloured mech and the deep purring that always characterized the Lord High Protector’s smoldering, still perceivable arousal that spread into his frame in pleasantly tingling waves. 

“Yeah… it’s amazing. Never saw Iacon from this angle.”

“One doesn’t see the dirt from up here. Only the majestic glimmer…”

Hot Rod nodded his helm to the side in slight bemusement. That sounded… it sounded like it wasn’t told to him, much as it was an answer to his sentiment.

“It is really majestic from here…”

“To you our life must seem very… hedonist, I guess is the word.”

Now, what to answer to that? Hot Rod was thinking furiously. If he agreed, it would sound like he disapproved of it. If he denied, could he lie convincingly enough? Somehow, he didn’t think so, not with those soul-searchingly intense, burning optics on him. 

“It… it is very… luxurious…”

“And you of course envy that. No, don’t bother with a lie, it is obvious and natural.”

The large frame shifted closer, heat pouring from his vents onto the stiff, red-orange plating. Hot Rod would have liked to inch a bit farther, but he didn’t dare. A quick glance told him that the Lord Prime was lounging on a sofa, a slender crystal in his servo filled with bubbly, energon, so light it was almost colourless. He looked completely lazy to a superficial observer, but Hot Rod caught a sharp glance towards them and knew that Lord Optimus was listening to their conversation. 

“I… yes.” – and wasn’t it the hardest thing he’d ever done to admit that? – “But I guess it comes with the downsides as well.”

A snort echoed loudly in the dim darkness, a surprisingly down to Cybertron sound from the Lord Prime, that made Hot Rod turn towards him once more. But the red-blue frame didn’t move or speak up and he turned back towards Lord Megatron.

“It does indeed. Responsibility being the most obvious one.”

Responsibility… Hot Rod suddenly felt like naked under the weight of that gaze, like it saw inside his processor, weighed what it saw there and judged him. His former bosses has always exhorted him on this point and he’d always shrugged it off as unimportant. He still couldn’t see why it was such a big deal. Things got done and somemech took responsibility… so what? But from that stare and the intensity of the answer he suddenly felt that there was more to it… even though he couldn’t see it still. But it was so hard to think under such a hot, intense glare… Hot Rod groaned inwardly, seeing that. They could still go on… sure, he was warned about their stamina, but it was still unbelievable to experience.

“I… I guess so…” – he babbled, as the red-blue frame was suddenly so close again, pushing him backwards, onto the couch. The Lord Prime leaned over him, his servos roaming over his plating that made him shiver again in anticipation. The large servo slowly glided up from his hips, over his side and up the central seam on his chest, leaving a tingling track behind it. Hot Rod moaned and forgot whatever he’d wanted to say. The touch sent a strong jolt of arousal through his chest and it grounded itself in his spark. 

The flame-emblazoned plate split apart, largely without his conscious effort, like he wanted to feel those digits drawing fire on his core again. Hot Rod trembled on the sofa, his legs fully immobilized by the large frame and unable to lift his suddenly weak arms either. The first touch on his chamber was like naked fire and he moaned long, the sound shuddering out of his vocalizer with the intensity he felt. He was cocooned under the large, heavy frame, its heat surrounding him completely, the immense field swallowing up his own, the red-blue metal rubbing shrieking tracks on his plates. 

A single digit dipped into the hot cavity of his chest and followed the edges of his chamber, making him tremble and groan, pushing himself up to have more of that touch, more of that pleasure, more of that amazing feeling… his trembling strengthened until he shook under the slow, inexorable caress, his vision hazing over until all he could see was a blurred blob of those incredible blue optics that speared him even through the haze. Hot Rod tried to collect himself, to reciprocate maybe, but he couldn’t manage to break through the fog of intense pleasure that flamed in his chest. 

His spark chamber opened almost by itself and the soft, blue light of his spark spilled out to lit up the little cave between their frames, its reflections dancing on edges and sliding on plates. His temperature and the immense pleasure grew as the digits continued to tease his chamber. Suddenly a stronger light joined his, paling it with the rainbow hues of its own, the Matrix glittering like a thousand gems at once and its searing heat flashed over his plates, scaring his smaller spark that wanted to escape, to hide from this much magnificence…

But the miniature sun moved closer slowly, its heat nearly unbearable, emitting tiny tendrils of light-energy in every colour possible. Hot Rod groaned, because it was all he was capable of, spread out and weighed down, awed and cowed by the light of the Prime’s spark. The tendrils reached out, touched the edges of his armour plates, every single touch is a glorious explosion of pleasure, sending shockwaves into his frame. Pinpricks of pleasure-pain jumped on his plates like electric shocks and that overwhelming, melting heat moved ever so closer, until Hot Rod started to feel an awareness, a ghost of a connection forming, through which he became aware of an intelligence so much older and wiser than himself, so much more powerful and intense that he’d ever seen or felt before…

And then he screamed shrilly when the connection was suddenly and ruthlessly broken, the large servos were pushing the Lord Prime’s frame away from him, the questing light-tendrils tore away, leaving pain behind and the heat literally seared his spark like molten metal poured over it. He was left there, smashed into the sofa covers, unable to move and pain eating him up like it was alive to consume him. He might have sobbed, but the drops of tears evaporated in the heat, his tumbling thoughts a pained chaos of bemused, frightened and agonized sense of loss. It was so intense and the sudden change so agonizing that for breems he wasn’t sure what happened and why.

When he could lift his helm next and with a herculean effort look around he saw the Lords lying on the next sofa, entwined completely and so close it was hard to tell them apart – and they were in the middle of a spark-merge, Lord Megatron holding down his trashing brother by considerable force, who appeared not much more conscious and coherent than Hot Rod himself. What exactly happened, he didn’t have the faintest idea. In one klik the pleasure was amazing, the Lord Prime’s lust so apparent – and in the next, he was pushed away, and the pain so agonizing like his spark shattered. Of all the events of the night it was the most incomprehensible for the young mech, having no frame of reference when it came to the Matrix.

But he froze and tried to disappear when he hear the low crooning coming from the Lord High Protector, when his scrambled processor made sense of the whispered words to his brother.

“Calm down, Optimus. It’s okay… it’s gone.” – he kissed the Lord Prime long and hard making him a bit calmer, his struggles definitely weakening – “You’re all right. The Matrix too. Just calm down. It’s ME!”

Hot Rod watched with a detached feeling of impending doom. He had no idea what happened – but he was sure that it was important.

And it involved him.


	8. Morning

Neither of them looked at him. The tension of the moment was thick in the breaking dawn of the balcony amidst the gorgeous colours of sunrise, but they were all but blind to them. The very air felt like sparking with it, twanging nerve wires and making them shudder with cold that had nothing to do with temperature. Lust was dead, its cold condensation drying on metal armours pinging as they cooled from fever-hot intensity. Interface arrays hid themselves behind protective plates, sparks whirled nervously in their shut chambers and cold morning air blasted over their frayed nerves.

The frozen tableau of the Lords entwined on the sofa was like winter cold sobering up in his overheated processor. Their struggling stopped as soon as overload hit and Lord Optimus looked like a metallic statue, held by his brother, his horror, his shock making his optics wide and the blue dim to nearly white. Then he shuttered them, slowly, like going into peaceful recharge and Lord Megatron loosened his vice-like, denting grip on his plating, lifted his heavy frame off the red-blue one, looking for all the world as bemused and disturbed as Hot Rod himself.

“Go.”

The voice was deceptively soft and unemotional, held in check by steel control. Statesmechs had such voice never to reveal what they truly feel, not to insult by tone, word or timbre. It was as cold and empty as those. Hot Rod rose, the command forcing him to move, even without fire behind it but as he stood, doubt started to unfurl in him. Was it said to him? Was the Lord Prime ordering him away – or his brother still holding him down? For all their ruling together, bonded together, leaning on each other - neither him, nor the Lord High Protector has ever denied or hidden the fact that his was the senior rank between them. 

“Go inside, little mech.”

Okay, so that was clearer a bit, Hot Rod thought, Lord Megatron adding his own low grumble to the picture. Slowly, cautiously, though sure that even a loud gallop couldn’t disturb them, he inched away from the sofa and towards the inside of the chamber and hasn’t stopped until he was as far from them as he could at the other end of the room. Then, and only then he dared to let out the stale air his vents were holding.

Hot Rod didn’t want to eavesdrop, he truly didn’t. He valued his life more than that and knew perfectly well how much stronger the Lords were than him and how little problem it would be for them to cause him disappear forever. And he truly believed now that some things he was better off not knowing. If he thought he could get away with it, he would have gone from the chambers before anything even worse happened that it did so far, but of course running away was – still – not an option. He checked the door in a vain hope… nope, still locked.

But the Lords were loud and their deep voices carried easily inside from the balcony, no matter that he deliberately went to the far end of the chamber from them and his hyped-up, fearful processor didn’t let him dial down his audials. 

“I don’t know!” 

Not every sound carried the same way of course. The Lord Prime’s roar definitely did and Hot Rod flinched hard even though the whole chamber separated him from the source of that anger he heard in the voice. 

“He’s not….” – the grumble too low to understand – “doesn’t matter…” – more low growls, impossible to get the meaning of – “he won’t tell…”

Okay, Hot Rod was officially scared. It was about him, that was for sure. It was also about something he did, though he had no idea what it could be, and keeping it a secret. He sure hoped that Lord Megatron didn’t mean something _drastic_ that would make him keep his silence… the voices suddenly lowered, like they remembered how loud it was and impossible not to hear in the chamber. Hot Rod grabbed a cube blindly and emptied it, the potent brew drawing cleanser from his optics, but he didn’t mind. It would be better to be drunk if they decided to dismantle him. 

He wasn’t sure how long he shivered there, between the table and the locked door, but since the next he consciously noticed was the lights going out and the openings between the pillars admitting the young, harsh daylight, some time must have gone. As he looked up, Hot Rod saw a dark silhouette at the balcony entrance, framed by two pillars, the shape that of the High Protector. He didn’t come closer, seemingly just standing there, like trying to decide what to do, optics like a pair of red coals smoldering in the silence. Hot Rod stared back into them unblinking, like hypnotized, not daring to move a single limb. 

“Don’t be frightened.” – the voice was still low but it carried well in the early morning stillness – “Nothing that happened is your fault.”

Hot Rod wasn’t sure where the bravery – or stupidity – came from to speak up but it did.

“B-but something… happened.”

“Not your concern either.” – the tone became a bit sharper, reminding him to his place. The large silhouette moved, stepping into the room and its sharp outlines resolved into the mech himself, the solid, silver armour, the strong limbs flowing in an easy yet powerful grace. 

“I… understand.”

He still waited nervously and unable to move as the Lord High Protector drew close, close enough to feel the hot ex-vents again.

“I’m sure you do… little mech.”

The dark purr was back as well, unknotting the tangle of nervous wires inside. It acted just like before, easing his fears and awakening arousal in him. Hot Rod wondered how he did that. The contrast was again just too sharp, the change from nervous fright into lust too sudden. He realized that as Lord Megatron’s immense field flared around him, enveloping him in a warm, fuzzy blanket that erased his cold fear. It was impossible to resist, so much stronger and powerful than his own, the mech using it masterfully, to erase his fear, suspicion and apprehension. 

Large servos started to dance on his frame, adding to the haze on his processor, firing up his sensory-net, hopelessly mire him in pleasure. Temperature grew until his vents opened fully to puff out hot air and his valve cover snapped back again. A minute, bitter thought rose from the sea of lust, telling him how much he reacted like a well-trained pleasurebot – but is sank under the surface straight away when those black digits toyed with his outer nodes, eliciting a deep moan from him. 

The digits dipped deeper, stretching his entrance and exciting the inner nodes, making lubricant drip and flow down on his thighs. The larger frame hugged him close, enveloping him like a lover, supporting him when his knee-joints weakened and threatened to fold up under him. He felt as he was carried to a sofa and set down, the larger frame of Lord Megatron covering him completely as he knelt over him, digits still pumping in and out of his frame. His field was nearly suffocating, preventing Hot Rod to have even the slightest coherent thought.

Then the digits were removed and that immense spike pushed in slowly, this time fully making sure that it was not only painless but pleasuring him fully. Were he able to, Hot Rod might have wondered about that careful consideration – but he couldn’t. It was just to wonderful, the cautious, amazing stretch, the slow slide in his well-lubricated valve, the way his sensory nodes were fired up one by one and been kept aroused by the ridges pressing on them… and when that overlarge spike knocked into the ceiling node, he couldn’t stop the yell that came out, muffled soon by the glossa of Lord Megatron. 

He was almost pampered and it came as a complete surprise after the scenario he’d witnessed. The slow, deep thrusts shattered his thoughts every time and he gave up trying to interpret the events as the pleasure grew in slow, inexorable waves. He almost missed the small click of a side panel opening, the connector sliding home and the gentle, almost imperceptible synching of Lord Megatron’s systems to his own. It was just another channel through which pleasure and warmth streamed into him, filling him up from the inside and the outside as well. He never noticed the minute presence in his memory banks.

When it peaked, it wasn’t an explosion, it wasn’t a world-shattering, screaming overload – rather it was a slow, gentle wave picking him up and carry him away into a land of pure pleasure and mind-blowing overload with a moan as deep as the Singing Canyons. Hot Rod let the wave carry him into a warm, deep darkness, forgetting the fear, the worry, the apprehension gnawing on him. There was safety and protection in that darkness and he didn’t object but succumbed to it.

When Hot Rod awakened, he was in a completely different berth. Not his own back in the small, rented apartment, not the luxuriously huge one of the Lords, just a small, utilitarian but comfortable one in a room he didn’t recognize. His limbs felt like he drove for vorns, his valve ached like Pit and his spark was engorged with too much charge still. He even had a slight processor-ache that almost had a label with high-grade on it, but it was more bearable than any overcharge on cheap shots he had remembered from before. 

His memories of the night were understandably fuzzy, but most were making him blush and fidget in embarrassment. Without any shred of doubt, it was the wildest, most exciting and lewd nigh cycles he had ever experienced – or dreamed of. Maybe more than what he had expected, more intense and in some parts even painful – but still, overall, he was sated, satisfied and looking forward to the riches he’d earned with so little effort. 

“Are you online?”

The voice was that of a stranger and Hot Rod jerked upwards surprised to sit on the berth. It caused a pang of pain in his valve and he hissed at that, but didn’t lay back. The mech standing patiently beside the berth was another medic, this one larger and older-looking, but still wearing the same calming, reassuring expression as the one before. Hot Rod nodded hesitantly to him, rather in greeting than in answer.

“Yeah…”

“I’m Rescan and I am here to help you with any injury or damage you might have. Do you feel up to an examination?”

“S-sure… can I have a little energon first?”

He wasn’t that underfuelled, but some light energon might help with the processor-ache.

“Of course” – he was handed a cube with med-grade energon and started sipping it slowly – “Any particular complaints?”

“I… uhhh… valve.” – he blushed, even though he knew that the medic probably expected it – “… and my spark feels… strange.”

The medic nodded to the first part but Hot Rod saw him draw the brow-plates together at the second.

“Spark? How would you describe it? I will have to examine it in any case, but it might help knowing what the symptoms are.”

Hot Rod nodded and tried to find words for the sensation. It was hard – he’d never had any spark-related injury or damage and never spared a lot of thoughts to it.

“It feels somehow… tight. Like it is bigger than usual and the chamber feels… overfull or tight. It is… uncomfortable.”

“I see.”

Rescan nodded but the frown remained on his faceplates. He barely waited until Hot Rod finished the cube before lifting up a scanner and with a polite nod motioned him to open his chest-plates. Hot Rod didn’t feel at all the scan on his spark but the medic’s continued frown worried him a bit. Had he kindled maybe? He didn’t think that the light connection was enough to kindle, but maybe it was… he didn’t want to lose the money after all he’d gone through for it. 

“Is it… is it a…”

“No, not a newspark.” – Rescan assured him, but the small, worried frown stayed on his brow – “I need to make more scans. Will you please open your spark-chamber?”

Hot Rod fidgeted slightly, his other aches suddenly jumping out in his processor. He didn’t want to bare his spark suddenly, not for this mech, not for anymech else… he didn’t know why but the idea suddenly felt awful. 

“C-can you fix everything else first?”

Rescan looked apologetic suddenly and nodded, setting the scanner down on a small med-table, among many other tools that filled Hot Rod with dread and stepped away slightly, exchanging a few low words with another mech that came into the room. Hot Rod quietly and nervously wondered. Could he possibly… escape maybe? He didn’t even mind not having anything else fixed. From the sum already on his account as his bank notified him in a comm message, he could pay a legion of medics for vorns. But he barely started to inch towards the other side of the berth when the medic returned with a larger mech in tow. Slag.

They quickly and efficiently started to go over his frame, very carefully scanning it and fixing every dent and scratch, the hip gimbals that he haven’t even noticed but somewhere along the way got knocked out of alignment, his valve that fortunately wasn’t even that injured, just sore, the minute, pinched wires and blown fuses, and every other little damage he didn’t keep track of. It was a long list, though nothing serious and he got bored by the time it was finished. 

The urge to run away abated somewhat as the medic worked on him, but some of it remained still, even though he judged the chances of it succeeding very low. More annoying was that he had no idea why he wanted to escape at this point, after the worst of it was over and he’d be let go soon… it was the spark-scan that got him scared but he couldn’t imagine anything beside a kindling, which medic already denied. 

“Now, please open your spark chamber.”

Well, no way to get away now, Hot Rod thought wryly and with some hesitation, opened his spark-chamber. The light that spilled out surprised both of them. It wasn’t his usual blue, it was multihued, glittering on the med-bay berth and their plating like rainbows – slightly dim, like it was fading already, but definitely unusual. Hot Rod panicked, servo coming up automatically to hide and protect his core, his voice shrill and nervous.

“What is this?” 

Rescan frowned again, tools changing quickly in his servos as he continued to take measurements and readings. His lipplates murmured several words, but all of them was way beyond Hot Rod’s medical knowledge and told him nothing.

“I believe it is fading.”

The medic said after several tense breems and Hot Rod saw the luminance growing dimmer, the colours of the rainbow fading out to give way to his usual, normal blue.

“There doesn’t seem to be any harmful effect from it though.”

He almost sounded disappointed. Hot Rod nearly collapsed back to the berth in a weak-kneed, dazed relief.

“Oh, good. Sweet Primus, what was it?”

Rescan was fiddling with one of the tools and obviously forming the answer carefully in his processor so that he could understand it. In the end he replied with a faint smile.

“Might have been a reaction to the Matrix. Like… likely an allergy.”

“What is an allergy?”

“Ohh, it is just a negative reaction of our frames to some materials or compound. Usually harmless. Means that in the future you should avoid the substance.” – his lipplates twisted wryly – “Considering that it is the Matrix, that won’t be hard for you.”

“Ohh… that’s… I supposed it’s good. Can I go then?”

“I want to observe the allergic reaction until its end, but then… sure, you may go.”

It took a joor more before the last of the rainbow-hued tendrils faded into nothingness and his spark was exactly like before. Hot Rod fidgeted on the berth, nervousness all but gone and his eagerness to enjoy his well-earned credits stronger every klik. The medic watched the process all throughout its developments, then took another careful scan, compared to the one taken last orn – _was it all just one single orn_ , Hot Rod mused slightly shocked by realizing it – and pronounced them to be identical.

Then he was seen once more by Lawsuit and signed the contract’s fulfilment and confirmation that he received the agreed payment – and he was shocked to see that there were two separate, very generous bonuses from the Lords’ private accounts added to the original sum. Hot Rod considered himself a lucky mech indeed, his less pleasant memories already fading as he turned towards the future, his so far nonexistent plans of what to do with his wealth now. From the door, he turned back once more, a sudden nervous idea attacking his shocked processor.

“I… uhh… have one more question.”

“Of course. What would it be?”

“I don’t remember the contract well… but there seemed to be no disclosure clause in it. Is it… I mean…”

“There is none indeed. It is not required to keep the events in secret.”

Hot Rod stared. Then stared some more. He could…? His processor rebelled at the thought. He could really… just tell everything? Just like that? Apparently he has said at least some of his incredulous thoughts, because Lawsuit smiled thinly and nodded.

“Yes, you may divulge any of what happened and you remember of. We can’t even stop you from fabrications… “ he stopped for a klik, then continued in a stiff voice - “…though the Lord High Protector takes it very personal when outright slanders start to circulate among the populace, rare as it is.”

It was a warning, Hot Rod was sure. A nicely phrased one, but a warning none the less. 

“I… see.”

“Good. It was… a pleasure to see you here, Hot Rod.”

“Likewise…” – he murmured and left the building as fast as it was polite running on the flashy corridors.


	9. Epilogue

“Prowl.”

The Minister of Interior looked up and seeing his visitor’s identity nodded politely and put down one datapad. The other two he was hardlined to remained, but the minister diverted a full ten per cent of his processing power to the Lord High Protector, who was a rare visitor at he center of the civilian running of Cybertron. Lord Megatron came closer and slid an unmarked datapad onto the desk, one that Prowl saw was heavily encrypted.

“How may I help you, Lord Megatron?”

Seeing the slight scowl on those stern lipplates, Prowl diverted another five per cent to the problem. 

“There is this mech, designation Hot Rod. Details on that datapad.”

Prowl took the datapad and started on the encryption. For his battle processor any that Lord Megatron could come up with was a matter of kliks to solve.

“We had him for a night, records of that are public and should be in the normal database. We have the visual records, those are not your problem, but there is a set of records on this datapad that are to be placed into the long-term secret database.”

That got the minister’s attention. The secret database was for matters that usually involved the Primacy or the priesthood – usually both – and always pretty sensitive information. 

“Shall I delete it from my memory banks after handling?”

“Nope. In fact you are to track this mech wherever he goes. He is not to be lost from sight. It shouldn’t be hard; he is not aware of the attention, has no spec ops training, ostentatious, vain and all his wealth originates from our coffers.”

Prowl nodded. He was of course aware of the Lords’ occasional night-cycle entertainment and the mechs so chosen usually got some moderate attention afterwards, to see if they were not spreading slander about the rulers. That this one got more was mildly surprising, but since Prowl already broke the datapad’s encryption and was able to read its contents, the visual and medical records, he understood and agreed completely. 

“It will be done.” - And he already had the appropriate mech in processor.

“Good. I’ll leave you to your work then.”

Prowl nodded, his processor already fully back to his datapads, not even noticing the Lord High Protector leaving his office.

-o-o-o-

Hot Rod, having no personal possession to collect in Iacon at all, drove out of the city with the max speed he dared with, without a real destination in processor, driven fully by the urge to be as far away as he could, as soon as was possible. He was fully fuelled, completely overhauled and a racing model – by the next night cycle he was several hundred hics away from the capital city. He tried not to think at all on the journey, save what was necessary to drive and only stopped when he saw the wayward stop sign. He slowed and rolled into the spacious car park, but he wanted more than just tarmac under his tires for recharge. He went in, to the bar of the establishment to have some high grade to help him not thinking some more. 

In there he met two mechs, on their way from Altihex to Kaon and they drank, talked and generally enjoyed the company of like-minded, young mechs. One of them, a yellow mech was less talkative, but the other, his red twin was to Hot Rod’s liking better. He had several brilliant business ideas, but no capital to start them with – and after a few joors Hot Rod felt that he could be trusted enough, not a swindler at all. From then on it was business and by the time they left the inn, they were partners, going the same way.

In Kaon, the mech, Sideswipe proved to be worthy of his boasting and their business soon started to flourish; while his brother became more and more famous as painter and their joint business started to make heavy profits. Hot Rod helped whatever he could, but his talents did not include neither trading nor arts, so he was mostly just enjoying the amounts that Sideswipe regularly transferred to his accounts. They did sometimes interface casually, but their relationship never became anything more serious than occasional lovers. He never really enjoyed the threesome, went after single mechs rather.

Some time later after their arrival to Kaon, Hot Rod became acquainted with an older mech, named Kup, who could tell the most outlandish stories from his youth, but who was in a way funny and giving good advice to the younger mech. It was his advice never to divulge the source of his wealth, which Hot Rod took and buried the events as deeply into his memory banks as possible. Their friendship soon became stronger, despite the occasion when Kup revealed that he used to work for the Lords of Cybertron – but after some orns of mistrust, Hot Rod decided that it was just accidental. 

It wasn’t, but he never became aware of that fact. Not for some more megavorns at least and when it did his smallest trouble was greater than Kup’s deceit.

\- end -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (just to make sure it is understood, because I have been kinda vague: The Matrix (and of course Optimus and Megatron) recognized Hot Rod as Prime candidate. But the present Lords don't want him to know about it, he is too young and brash to be able to bear this sort of responsibility. So they send Kup after him to guard/teach/keep an optic on him until his time comes.)


End file.
